


the importance of being idle

by CapnJack



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, First Meeting, I guess this just became a rock n roll AU, Just a bit of fun, Morning After, Rock and Roll, and emma swan still can't remember if the sex was good, it was probably some really great sex just a shame emma can't remember it, killian jones is a guitarist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnJack/pseuds/CapnJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Please-get-out-my-apartment-(no-really-get-out)-you're-hot-but-I-got-shit-to-do-turned-rock-'n-roll AU. Captain Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. get-out-of-my-apartment-(no-really-get-out)-you're-hot-but-I-got-shit-to-do

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little somethin'-somethin' that popped into my head for my new OTP. Enjoy!

Emma awoke to the sound of activity, muffled thumps and fumbling near her ears along with the hum of a machine she couldn’t remember hearing before. The first sleep drugged thought to float to the top of her mind was that she wasn’t at home, but the scent of her pillows was distinct: she _felt_ like she was home, she just wasn’t used to the noises. Finally she shifted, letting out a long breath and the movement instantly sent a jolt of pain to her skull. Her head felt like it was stuffed full of folded silk, unravelling and creasing with painful precision beneath the surface of her skin. She identified the feeling instantly as too much tequila and not enough lime, and let out a high pitched whine into her pillow. All of a sudden one of the thumps became distinctly less muffled and the sound of something crashing to the floor sprung open her eyes. 

She ignored the wooziness associated with the beams of light assaulting her cornea and instead focused on the source of the sound: a shape trying to slowly move about her room. Prepared to face up to the mistakes brought on by the tequila and no lime Emma opened her mouth to speak, pausing only to survey the damage. 

The man was momentarily distracted by the pile of records he’d just knocked off her dresser onto the floor and she allowed herself a moment to observe. His ratty black jeans were on but not done up at the top, his shirt was notably missing and a worn leather jacket rested around his bare shoulders, affording her a good look at his toned chest. Perhaps she hadn’t done so badly after all. His chest was laden with black string necklaces, hands currently stooping to pick up records adorned with large rings, but his face was hidden from view. Unmistakable bed hair in raven could be seen, though: soft, raven hair she could remember running her fingers through as flashbacks of the night before sprung to her mind. 

As if realising he was being observed, the man lifted his face and caught her eye: bright, twinkling blue eyes and the scruff of a beard a few days old surrounding a cheeky smile.  
She cursed inwardly: it was worse than she thought. A guitarist, and a damn good looking one at that — the worst of it was his probable awareness of the fact. They were always the toughest to get rid of. No, that was a lie, she thought; the worst of it was that his grin looked downright _sinful_ and she couldn't string together anything more substantial than flashes of memory from the night before.

“Don’t worry,” he spoke up suddenly, and Emma was suddenly aware of the fact that she’d been staring at him from the huddle of her duvet quite intently. His accent was unfamiliar, some kind of lilting Britishness there. “I know how this works.”

Emma let out a small noise of relief. “Then couldn’t you be a little quieter?” 

She nestled in closer to her pillow and let her eyes shut, content that for once she might’ve struck lucky with a guitarist who didn’t want to stay and talk about his feelings or gloat about the night before. 

“Didn’t get much sleep, hm?” She could hear the smug smile in his words without needing to see it. Regardless, there was something tempting in his voice — an unspoken invitation, as if he were murmuring intimately into her ear. A sensuality she was unused to. “Someone keep you up?” At his teasing she let one eye open to watch him, and visibly narrowed it. She was rewarded with a chuckle. It struck her then that she actually had no idea what to call him, which was harsh even for her. Usually she wasn’t as bad as that. Maybe she’d just grabbed him before he could even get the word out. 

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts he continued; “It’s Killian, by the way.”

“I don’t care.” The bite in her tone was unmistakable, and instinctive. 

Although Killian seemed to have no trouble ignoring it as he finished collecting her fallen records and stood up to his full height, returning them to their rightful place on her dresser. 

“I made coffee, I hope that’s alright,” he brought a mug she only now noticed he was holding to his lips and raised his eyebrows, as if inviting her to challenge him. “Although I have to admit, I struggled a little with your grinder. Or maybe it struggled with me. You don’t make coffee very much, do you?” 

He wasn’t entirely correct; Emma valued speed of ingestion over quality of beverage, and tended to drink nothing but instant. The grinder Killian spoke of had been a scathing birthday present from Regina for Mary Margaret’s 22nd birthday, thus neither of them had touched it yet. Emma surmised one of the unfamiliar noises that roused her from sleep must’ve been the ill-used machine. 

She didn’t particularly feel like blessing the half-naked man in her bedroom with this information, but Emma wasn’t sure how she felt about this _Killian_ making assumptions about her life, either. 

“What makes you say that?”

“Apart from the fact that it was still half in the packaging?” Killian grinned. “Although having said that, you’re _clearly_ not a morning person so I’m not entirely certain how that works out.” 

“Mm, well, feel free to keep thinking,” she mused, finally sighing and realising she wasn’t going to get any more sleep, “but drink up. And find your shirt. I don’t want you leaving it here for me to catch any of your diseases.”

“No offence, but I think you’ve probably already sabotaged yourself in that area, love.”

Emma shot him a glare but ultimately ignored him, sitting up and wrapping a sheet around her naked shoulders. The nearest piece of clothing she could find was the long button-up shirt she’d been using for pyjamas: a leftover from her venture into Valley Boys that she was still recovering from. Herding people like this Killian out of her apartment hadn’t become a totally uncommon occurrence in the wake of her parting with Neal Cassidy. 

She could feel Killian’s eyes on her as she let the sheet drop and wrapped the shirt around her, deliberately taking her time. Truthfully, she relished the attention. It felt good to be wanted. With all the buttons done up she finally straightened and turned back to him, ignoring the pounding of her head and privately admiring the heat in his gaze. Emma tried again to conjure up an image of his face above her, below her, what his hands might have felt like — nothing. Frustration didn't quite cover it.

“Feel free to go now.” 

Killian was emphatic with his refusal, almost as if he were deliberately trying to irritate her in the light of her clear attempt to usher him to a prompt exit. “What’s the rush?” he teased, “I thought I’d stick around, make some breakfast. Maybe watch you sleep a little more.” 

Emma scowled. Guitarists were _definitely_ the worst. 

“You were watching me sleep?” she scoffed. “Great. Clingy _and_ twisted.”

“You looked like an angel,” he continued as if he couldn’t hear her, and something about the way his smile was teasing at the corner of his mouth made him seem suddenly so genuine. She knew better. “I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was finding it difficult to reconcile that image with the nail scars down my—“

He never finished his sentence, as one of Emma’s pillows hit him square in the face. 

With that Emma swept out of the room, heading into the kitchen area and hoping he’d take the initiative and follow her: one step closer to the door. 

“Hey, sorry, wait,” he said, as he predictably stepped out of her bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. “Couldn’t resist.” He looked surprisingly sheepish, and Emma paused mid-hurricane of preparing some sort of hangover cure-esque breakfast to watch him carefully. Killian caught her eye and held her gaze, his pastel blue eyes softening a little as he tilted his head to the side. 

Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he stepped closer to the kitchen counter standing between them. “Why don’t I stay and cook you something? As a thank you for last night.” Sensing her refusal he ploughed on; “My pancakes are so bloody brilliant they’re illegal in at least five states, y’know.” 

He was goading her, challenging her to take him up on the offer, and for a long moment she was sorely tempted. There was an openness in his eyes that left no room for expectation, for judgement, and she enjoyed it. And pancakes did sound like the perfect way to start her day — not to mention the way his tongue drifted out to his upper lip was downright indecent. 

“Well,” she started quietly, matching the softer tone of the exchange, “tempting as it is, given I’ve already been arrested once I think we better not take the risk.” 

A slow smile dawned on his face, and he nodded, before taking another sip of his coffee and setting it down on the counter. “A girl used to grappling with the strong right arm of the law, I like that.”

“And if my sister comes home and finds you loitering in her apartment, you’ll be grappling with a totally different strong right arm. Specifically a clenched fist.”

“Ah,” Killian’s eyes twinkled, “but she hasn't tried my pancakes yet.”

Despite it all, Emma smiled indulgently. “You think you’re cute.”

“I know I’m cute.”

Biting her cheek to stop her grin from growing wider, Emma walked back around the counter and covered the last few paces to the door of the flat, opening it slowly as she maintained a lazy eye contact. There was a certain intensity he returned her gaze with and his entire stance was tense, as if he were restraining himself from moving towards her and his limbs hummed with the effort. Emma delighted in that. She was thrilled by the notion that all he wanted to do was press her back against the door and tear open Neal’s old shirt, button by button. It wasn’t a question of interest, merely opportunity — one which she wasn’t going to give him. 

“C’mon. Time to go…” Emma found herself trailing off as he finally stood, wondering if he’d push for that opportunity regardless. 

“Killian,” he supplied, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth, correctly assuming his name had gone entirely from her head. 

Emma clicked her tongue. “I still don’t care.” 

He passed by her, slowly, eyes boring into hers but Emma steeled her gaze — no matter how damn attractive he was, he would not be staying in her apartment. Not with Mary Margaret on her way home soon, and not with that grin that looked like it was used to causing damage. There was a moment he hesitated, only a few inches above her and well in a position to kiss her regardless of her thoughts on it, and her eyes flickered to his lips unbidden. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. 

“Don’t I at least get to find my shirt?”

“I’m afraid,” she continued softly, leading him to believe she was preserving the intimacy of the moment, laying her left palm on his chest, “that window of opportunity has closed.” Then she applied all the force she could muster and shoved him the final few paces, the man surprised enough to stumble back over the threshold. Emma offered a saccharine smile. “And you know what they say — when one window closes, so does the door.” 

Without further preamble she tossed the door back into the frame, his single protest muffled by the wood slamming into place. 

“Good thing I hated that shirt, then!” 

Making a mental note to search her room sometime later so she could incinerate said shirt before combing every inch with disinfectant, Emma returned to the kitchen to try and find something to lull the throbbing in her skull. The apartment she shared with Mary Margaret was modest to put it mildly, but the rent was cheap and that was the most that she could ask for in a place like Storybrooke. She’d been bugging her sister to move somewhere less pricey for almost a year now, but she simply wasn’t having any of it — and being between jobs as she was, Emma didn’t exactly have the means to support herself financially on her own. 

Her thoughts strayed to the man she’d just unceremoniously banished from the flat, this Killian. Patches of the night before kept coming back to her in waves, the drink, the thrum of the crowd, she thought she could pull together the moment their gazes had slammed together across the bar — he really hadn’t been awful to look at. She just wished she could know _subjectively_ whether she'd done quite well. Especially since she’d been scoping for guys at one of David’s gigs, and they didn’t always attract the most interesting of crowds. 

It was only as she turned to begin making a mug of coffee that she came across an unfamiliar object on her kitchen counter; by the coffee grinder she and Mary Margaret had studiously avoided like it was cursed, a black piece of cloth had been folded neatly with a post-it note stuck on top. As Emma realised just what she’d acquired she couldn’t help the wry smile that broke out; she pulled off the post-it and tried to decide if she was more amused or exasperated. 

_My favourite shirt, would hate to lose forever: property of Killian Jones. If found, please call 207-746-5217.  
—K x. _

She didn’t. Call him, that is.

But she was also correct in assuming it wouldn't be the last time she'd hear from him. And, oddly, the notion wasn’t entirely as unappealing as she’d thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is a one chapter thing. Idk. It was fun to write! Maybe I'll add a little more if there's interest.


	2. oops-it's-my-one-night-stand-from-last-week-goddamnit-he's-still-hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which this little ficlet becomes a rock 'n roll AU. thank you so much for the response to the last chapter, I was a little overwhelmed! Enjoy! :D

Emma was still musing over just what to do with Killian’s shirt when she was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of a key turning in a lock — Emma hurried to check the shirt she was wearing was buttoned up all the way. Mary Margaret didn’t exactly approve of her sister’s choice of night time activities, and after a moment’s thought she stuffed Killian’s t-shirt into one of the cupboards. She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the urge to hide it, but figured concealing Killian’s presence was important nonetheless. 

“Emma, why did I walk past a half-naked man in my hallway?”

So much for that. 

Emma could feel a laugh bubbling at the disapproving tone, so she merely turned to put a few slices of toast into the toaster and wrinkled her nose. “He was trying to give me diseases.”

“Okay,” Mary Margaret grimaced, “gross. I know you needed some help getting past the whole Neal business, but do I have to see so _much_ of your help?”

“I’ll tell them to be more discrete.”

As Mary Margaret shirked her bag and coat Emma could sense she had more to say, and willed her to stay just as quiet as she had on most other occasions, to no effect.

“Or you could just — stop?” she suggested, with the lack of expectation she’d come to accept. This had been going on for months, and resignation had become the prevalent feeling. “Emma, quit with the melodramatic downward spiral. I understand the need to act out, but — things were doing so _well_ before. Outside of Neal.” Emma remained silent, grinding her teeth together and determinedly avoiding the imploring eyes of her sister. “Why not get back into the photojournalism gig? Your stuff looked great.”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s really my thing.” 

“No, it’s just a thing you associate with Neal, so you’ve started avoiding it like you avoid genuine human connection.” Her determined silence was probably a testament to its truthfulness. Mary Margaret continued, in a gentler tone. “You haven’t worked a story in months, and while I appreciate the money coming in from your job at Granny’s… I want you to be happy. Isn’t that why you moved here in the first place?”

Emma took a bite out of her toast, grateful for the excuse not to say anything. Mary Margaret seemed to take this as some form of acknowledgement, so she picked up her bag and made to leave the room.

“Just think about it, okay?”

Just after she departed, Emma could hear her sister making a disapproving noise from the bathroom. 

“ _Really_ , Emma? You sure know how to pick them.”

When her sister emerged, tutting, and headed for her bedroom, curiosity got the better of Emma and she abandoned her toast, crossing the hallway to examine just what she was referring to. Another post-it note was stuck to the mirror (just how long was this guy awake before she was?) and Emma pulled it off with a growl of irritation. 

_I like the way you purr.  
—K x. _

Not a week later Emma was at Regina Mills’ desk, camera slung over her shoulder, asking for a new assignment. She’d be damned if the rest of her life consisted of liaisons with the _Killian Jones’s_ of the world.

***

A few days after that, she found herself buzzing the door of the Storybrooke Dive, the best (and only) recording studio the sleepy town had to offer. The most surprising thing Emma had come to accept about Storybrooke after moving in with her sister was its underground grunge scene; it was, frankly, given the idyllic white-picket-fence dozing-OAP-centric vibe it gave off by walking down Main Street, bemusing how active the night life was, with regular live gigs in coffeehouse sessions or Battles of the Bands at the warehouses down by the dock. One of Storybrooke’s greatest exports was its music industry, so a baffling amount of money and publicity went into promoting it to tourists. 

The best thing about the eclecticism of the scene was that you rarely came across the same group twice, as so many popped up and departed or disbanded or merely used Storybrooke as a springboard to get from local fame to national stardom, and as a photojournalist Emma had profiled hundreds of bands. She and Neal had started together, as a team. As she waited to be buzzed into the building she tried not to think too hard about how this would be her first profile without him present. 

The band was called the Jolly Rogers, and they’d be recording their first EP for the next couple of days in the Dive, and Emma had been sent to get some good accompanying shots for a profile she would work on with Regina. Regina was one of the Editors of the Storybrooke Mirror, specifically the arts and entertainment section, and an old friend of their family. Well, not quite a friend; but the Blanchard’s and the Mills’ helped each other out from time to time, and Emma was as much of a Blanchard as Mary Margaret and her parents. 

Emma met their manager first, the bumbling William Smee (was that his real name or just supposed to add to the pirate aesthetic?) in the foyer, before he led her upstairs to meet the band. 

“I don’t like to take a bunch of time over this,” she was telling him as they climbed the stairs, “I don’t have the patience for self-indulgence.”

“Quite right, Miss Swan—”

“We’ll just do a short interview, I’ll get a feel for the band, take a few posed shots get some while they’re recording. More organic, you know?”

“Yes, I—”

“But tell your guitarists not to play up to it, they’re the worst. Acting natural looks so much sexier than whatever smoulder they try and throw at the camera, got it?”

“It’s no trouble, Killian is—”

Emma had opened her mouth to continue her tirade as they reached the top of the stairs before she froze. Smee, too, had stopped speaking, likely in anticipation that he’d be cut off again, so when she didn’t immediately carry on he found himself at a loss. 

“Killian?” Emma balked. _Please, God no_. 

“Killian Jones,” Smee continued, eyeing her curiously, “he’s the lead guitarist. I’ll tell him all you said about self—self-indulgence, not to worry!”

Before she could rattle off some excuse about why she couldn’t _possibly_ complete their profile that afternoon, the door to the studio was thrown open and her green eyes collided right with the cornflower blue that had kept barging their way into her subconscious while she slept for the past week, and she had to resist the open groan of irritation. Of all the bands that passed through Storybrooke, and she was being subjected to one more day of the self-satisfied, easy-on-the-eyes bastard whose shirt was currently abandoned on the floor of her wardrobe.

Killian Jones, meanwhile, had let his surprised expression give way to a smarmy grin of recognition, the quirk to his mouth looking positively salacious.

 _God_. How had she ended up with all the smugness and not a jot of the good stuff? Assuming the stuff _was_ good. 

“Emma Swan,” Killian mused, and Emma would never understand how he could make her name roll off the tongue like something indecent, “this is a most pleasant surprise.” 

Emma’s response was ironclad. “Sorry, and you are?”

She could see his grin slip, something akin to hurt cross his expression. “Always nice to make an impression.” 

“You—you two know each other?” interjected Smee. 

She took pity on him, only because he looked for all intents and purposes like a puppy she’d willingly booted in the groin. “We met at a gig.” Emma threw him a glare as she opened the door beside him, passing into the studio, daring him to refute the story. 

Killian, for his part, looked pleased she’d even acknowledged him. 

“Yes, quite. A truly _sensational_ experience.”

 _Maybe for him_ , Emma thought dryly.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Most of the morning passed in relative ease — Killian’s lascivious comments were straightforward enough to ignore, and none of his bandmates seemed to consider them anything beyond the ordinary, so any evidence of just how acquainted she and the guitarist were remained under wraps, which was fine by her. It would just scream a level of unprofessionalism she was not happy to adhere to if anybody found out. Emma conducted her interview with a casual air, being introduced to the rest of the band who were a lot more genial than their lead. Robin, the drummer, was about as gentlemanly as anyone she’d met in the industry, August, the bassist, appeared quiet but thoughtful, and the rhythm guitarist Tina Bell was as loud, if not louder, than Killian, but also generous — she kept up a strong rapport with every member of the band, not allowing either of them to dominate discussion. She was a positive counterpoint to Killian’s arrogance, and made the whole interview a lot more pleasant. 

Their lunch break found Emma browsing through the notes she’d taken, already picturing just what kind of shots she could plan to reflect their general vibe, and she sat outside on a bench behind the studio to get away from the cramped space for a few minutes. This was where Killian found her, their first chance to be alone since she’d arrived. When Emma realised he’d approached her, hovering at the edge of the bench, she studiously ignored him until he finally spoke up. 

“You didn’t call,” he mused. 

“I didn’t want to call.” 

“I want my shirt back.”

Emma clicked her tongue. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you left it.” 

“Who says I did it deliberately?”

Finally Emma lifted her gaze from her notes, fixing him with a pointed look.

“Point taken,” Killian muttered, reaching a hand up to scratch behind his ear. “But is that _really_ so terrible?” He paused. “I wanted to see you again.” 

“I was that good, huh?”

Killian shot her a devilish grin. “Wasn’t _I?_ ” When Emma didn’t immediately respond, attempting to refocus on the pieces of paper she was holding, she could almost sense the change in the air when he realised. “You don’t remember it, do you?”

Emma grunted. “I remember your pathetic attempt at a pickup line.”

_What’s a dirty girl like you doing in a nice place like this?_

“That’s literally the least effective insult you could’ve produced, given I still ended up in your apartment with you murmuring positively _filthy_ things in my ear, love.” 

Emma looked up sharply, eyes narrowing to glare. “I did _not_ do that.”

Killian spread his hands. “How would you know?”

“I _don’t_ do that, that’s how I know.”

“Maybe I was the exception.” 

“Or maybe you’re just desperate.”

“Spin it how you like, Swan,” Killian made a show of stretching, baring his midriff, before heading back to the door. “The fact is, you’ll never know just _what_ I made you do unless you give me a second go.” 

“I don’t do repeats,” Emma bit back.

The door to the Dive open, Killian then turned back to her, eyes shaded that darker blue she’d seen just before he left her apartment last week. “Neither do I. I get the feeling nothing would be the same with you.”

Left with that somewhat cryptic comment, Emma merely let out a small noise of frustration. The sooner this profile was done the better, and the sooner she could get back to her bed, Netflix, and waiting for the Jolly Rogers to pass through Storybrooke like so many of their contemporaries. 

***

“Stop — Robin you have to _stop_ looking at the camera. It defeats the object of a candid shot.”

“Sorry! But it’s just — I mean it’s _not_ really candid, is it, not when I know when it’s being taken and exactly where you are. I can’t help it, my eyes wander.”

“You are rather distracting, Swan.”

“You know what else is distracting? You, getting out of time. I know you’re trying to show off but could you maybe keep it on your _own_ dime, and not when we’re paying for a recording studio.”

Tina and Killian dropped back into a pattern of bickering and Emma sighed, lowering her camera. If she was honest, if she wanted to catch the true vibe of the Jolly Rogers she’d be better off snapping a few shots now — more than anything they enjoyed arguing. It was an affectionate sort of squabbling, one that came from intimate knowledge and acquaintance with each other, but it was also wildly unprofessional. It wasn’t in Emma’s nature to judge the bands, not really, but she supposed the harshness of her opinion spawned more from her contempt for the lead guitarist than from any habit or lack of regard for the others. They just didn’t exactly make her job easy. 

“Alright, alright,” August interjected with his usual calm, “why don’t we try Survivor. If Killian is singing he is far less likely to get _distracted_ , Emma can get some good photos and we can put her out of her misery.”

Shooting August a grateful look, Emma shrugged from her position in the corner of the room. “Sure, sounds good.” 

Most of their songs so far saw Tina taking lead vocals, but with a quick shifting around of microphones and a few false starts they finally struck a rhythm they were happy with. There was something a little more sobering about Killian’s expression, like he was prepared to take things about as seriously as he should have done two hours ago, and Emma’s eyes were drawn to him before he even opened his mouth. 

When he did? She couldn’t remember hating tequila more for robbing her of the vestiges of a night with this man. 

His voice was sultry, dark, exactly the sort she’d expect as he practically whispered into the mic, but more than that was the concentration and the intensity on his face. The Jolly Rogers had whacked it up from somewhere around a three straight to a ten, and as the melody dripped from Killian’s lips Emma struggled to regain her bearings enough to do it justice and capture the moment, so enraptured she felt by him. As she moved as quietly as she could from her position in the corner to the front of the studio, careful of cables and microphones as she went, she knew she would likely draw their attention but hoped they could maintain their level of focus — even Robin scarcely looked her way. 

When Killian did, his eyes were all heat. 

In that moment she found herself right back at the first time they kissed, to the way her hands had carted through his hair, the scrape of his rings as his hands had reached under her shit for her waist almost immediately, white hot and scorching as she could only pull him closer for more. The memory was fuzzy, the events surrounding and following it even more so, but for an infinitesimal second that vision was preserved in perfect clarity. Emma made a point of never taking smouldering shots of lead singers looking straight into the lens, but for once — on this single occasion — she lifted the camera, pressing her finger on the shutter just once. She needed some kind of barrier between him and the warm feeling in her gut, and her camera did just that. When she lowered it, he was back to watching the frets on his guitar and communicating silently with Tina for the next verse. 

Survivor would be a hit, at least amongst the Storybrooke crowd. 

“I think I’ve got what I came for,” Emma finished with a forced enthusiasm around twenty minutes later. “It was a pleasure working with you. Good luck with your concert tomorrow night.” 

The Jolly Rogers and their manager expressed their own gratitude before raising their hands in farewell, climbing about the small studio to try and collect all their gear together before the Dive closed for the day. Emma had scarcely made it five steps down the stairs before the door had opened, and she wouldn’t admit she’d been hoping he might follow her. 

“Swan, wait.” 

Emma paused, keeping her hand on the banister and half-turning, raising her eyebrows and waiting for him to speak. After that moment in Survivor, even looking at his eyes was arresting. 

“You should come, tomorrow night. To the concert.” 

Emma gave her best attempt at an unaffected shrug. “I’ll think about it.” 

As she turned to go she felt Killian’s hand on her arm, not entirely sure when he’d started climbing down the stairs. “I mean it.” He held out what looked like a post-it note (what was it with this guy and post-its?) and she took it without thinking. “Here’s the address.”

Finding herself mute, Emma could merely nod tightly before continuing down the stairs, not pausing until she was out of the building and nearly halfway down the street. She was almost entirely certain she would _not_ be attending the Jolly Rogers concert; she had to remember that guitarists were for sleeping with, not for thinking about up to weeks after the fact. 

All the same, curiosity got the better of her and she dropped her eyes to the note she was still clutching in her left hand; just to see which venue to avoid.

_Warehouse 4, the docks @ 8pm._  
_Wouldn’t you like to know how it felt to hear me scream?_  
_—K x._

***

Something Emma certainly wouldn’t admit to as she submitted her final shot choices to Regina that evening, was the embarrassing number she’d taken that focused solely on Killian Jones.

Or that she’d spent an abnormal number of time staring at one photo in particular, the singer staring straight into the camera. 

It was just a job, and soon enough the alluring lead guitarist of the Jolly Rogers would be out of her life for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect this is part 2 of 3 or 4. Let me know what you thought!


	3. oh-great-and-now-he's-stalked-me-to-work-what-a-nice-guy-damnit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just keeps getting longer and longer, I tell you :'D but anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! Thank you so much to everybody who's commented or left kudos so far, it means the world!

Emma did not attend the Jolly Rogers concert the following night — as it happened, the decision was taken out of her hands. 

Granny Lucas had decided she needed all hands on deck for the evening shift, which would leave Emma on her feet from four-thirty until at least midnight, and firmly away from Warehouse 4 in the Storybrooke harbour at eight o’clock. The real challenge was stopping her mind from wandering there regardless; what Killian Jones did or said was absolutely none of her business, even less so now that she’d rebuffed that particular invitation. She just needed to suck it up and move on with her life — he wasn’t _that_ good in the sack, anyway, or she was certain even her tequila-addled mind would have been able to remember it. 

It seemed no sooner that she’d begun making a conscious effort not to let her thoughts drift to the expression on his face as he sang Survivor, than the man himself stepped through the door, looking around tentatively as if he were trying to find something; or rather, some _one_. Abruptly Emma turned, cutting off the couple who had been ordering and all but sprinting towards the counter. It was only ten! Why in God’s name was Killian Jones now sitting at a table in Granny’s and not out celebrating after what she could only assume was a smashing set, if their performance in the Storybrooke Dive yesterday had been any indication?

Emma decided to stick with her previous plan, schooling her features into a mask of indifference; he would not shake her, and she would keep doing her job. She made a point of not looking at him as she walked by, delivering a glass of water and a gin and tonic to the young woman sitting in the booth next to his. 

“Fancy joining me for dinner?”

Emma spared him a glance when it became apparent he’d been speaking to her, a single eyebrow quirked in a challenge. She merely tutted, looking away again as she walked back past him. “It’s ten o’clock,” she pointed out.

Killian didn’t bat an eyelid. “I skipped out on my encore to come down here, Swan.”

That suggested another question, which had her turning to him to give him a curious look. “How did you find me?”

He merely gestured to the seat opposite. “Join a beggar for some supper, won’t you?”

Emma clicked her tongue. “I have to work.” 

Without allowing him another chance to argue, Emma turned back to the counter and moved around the back of it, swapping dirty glasses for clean ones and determinedly avoiding the heated glare she could feel coming from the person standing next to her. 

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Ruby Lucas finally spoke up and Emma spared her a glance, noting her folded arms and the way her gaze kept slipping in the direction of the booth she’d just returned from. “Emma, are you kidding?! I’ll cover for you.” She’d apparently heard Emma’s excuse too. 

“I don’t want cover,” Emma muttered back, “I want you to get him out of here.”

“Why, because he’s hot? Interested in you?”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “He could be a creep for all we know. He already _stalked_ me here.”

“Emma,” Ruby gave her a stern look, “he came all the way up here. At least go talk to him.” When Emma merely groaned, already knowing she was going to have to give in, Ruby hit her on the arm. “ _Go!_ ” Her friend turned, throwing her mutinous looks which turned to irritation when Ruby then smacked her on the bum as she began walking away. 

Emma flapped her hand away. “I’m _going!_ ” When she reached the table she folded her arms, just as Killian looked up at her with a satisfied grin. “Alright, Jones. You get to buy me _one_ plate of fries.” 

“Delighted to,” Killian beamed, nodding once at Ruby who set about getting the order ready as Emma slid into the booth. She was beginning to grow suspicious of just _how_ Killian Jones had found out where she would be that evening. The last thing she needed was one of her best friends and her one night stand (who was beginning to resemble a bad penny more than anything else) to be in cahoots. 

“This why you missed the gig, then?” Killian’s eyes were just as intense as she remembered them, but Emma returned his stare evenly. 

“You know why I missed the gig.” 

The man across from her sighed heavily as Ruby brought over a portion of fries. “Why is the idea of seeing me again always so detestable to you?”

As Emma helped herself she found herself giving a surprisingly honest answer. “I don’t exactly have good taste in men.”

“Does that mean I’m to your taste?” Killian looked like the cat who’d caught the canary and Emma rolled her eyes. 

“Hardly.”

“That’s not what you said last week.”

Emma chewed slowly, trying to ascertain just how much of what he said was truth. “Is that so?”

“Admit it, love,” Killian leant forward, taking a single fry and biting off the end, “you’re _dying_ to know just what happened.” He wasn’t wrong, but Emma refused to offer an assent. “What I did with my hands, where I put my tongue…” His eyes dropped rather unsubtly to the curve of her neck, then lower, before returning to hers. “Which great secrets you revealed to me.” 

Emma shook her head, ignoring the tingle his words sent to her fingertips. “Nobody enjoys hearing replays of their O face.”

Killian shrugged. “I do.” 

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Go on, Swan,” he continued jovially, “answer the question. You and I get on like a house on fire, have done since we met. Why do you keep dismissing this?”

Emma surveyed the man in front of her, eyebrows raised playfully, eyes entertainingly serious. It was the same sort of look she could remember seeing on his face the first moment he turned around in her bedroom, after having knocked all her records to the ground. The banter was the same he’d offered up while she’d been trying to usher him out of the apartment — he knew when to push and when to give way, which suggested a knowledge of her she wasn’t comfortable with. In a way he reminded her of Neal, and that was why the klaxons were blaring so loudly in the back of her mind. The fact of the matter was that Killian Jones made her feel like they’d known each other for years, which in turn made her want to do nothing more than sprint in the opposite direction. 

“Alright,” she said instead, leaning back in her chair and bracing her hands on the table, “fine. The last guy I was involved with on a semi-permanent basis was kind, sweet, superb in bed and we were great together, until he decided to break up with me by framing me for a jewellery shop robbery. Then he skipped town and I spent three weeks locked up at the Sheriff station until they could prove I didn’t do it.” She raised an eyebrow in challenge, gauging his reaction. “Aversion of men justified enough to you now?”

For his part, Killian seemed somewhat humbled by the revelation, and Emma almost felt bad for making him feel so uncomfortable — but she couldn’t help but consider how good it felt for him to be on the back foot for once. 

“I — yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “Quite. I’m sorry that happened to you, Swan.”

Put off by what looked like pity in his eyes, Emma brushed him off. “What about you, then? What’s your story?”

Killian spread his hands with a shrug. “Oh, there isn’t one.” 

Emma shook her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “ _Please_ ,” she pointed at his forearm, bared because of the way his sleeve had ridden up. It was an image she’d noticed when she sat down, the knife though the heart and the name _Milah_ inscribed on it. “As if that tattoo doesn’t scream emotional baggage.” 

Surveying it as she pointed it out, Killian tugged down his sleeve to cover the tattoo — not quickly, in a manner that instead suggested nonchalance, but Emma could see straight through it in the way his jaw had tensed. 

“Aye, it does,” he responded wryly, “and if I thought telling you all my emotional baggage would endear me to you, believe me I would.” He offered her the by now familiar grin. “But I want there to be a second date.”

“This isn’t a date.”

“Isn’t it?”

Emma chose that moment to hold up the plate, by now empty. “Thanks for the fries, Jones. Don’t forget to pay the bill on your way out.”

“Emma.” She’d stood to go back to work, but the use of her first name had her hesitating — it was imbibed with a surprising amount of feeling, and she found something altogether too earnest for their exchanges watching her. “Will you consider going out with me? Properly, I mean.” 

She was momentarily blindsided by the honesty of the question, and bit her lip. 

Realising he might have asked too much, Killian backpedalled. “Or — when does your shift end? You missed out on an incredible concert, I’ll have you know.” 

Emma weighed up her options, trying to puzzle him out and biting her lip. She looked at him doubtfully. “It’s late.” 

“I’ll wait.” 

“Like, I’m here for another two hours.” 

“I’ll pick you up near midnight, then?”

This Killian Jones didn’t miss a beat. 

“Alright,” Emma conceded, “but I doubt I’ll make good company, I’ll be knackered.” 

His smile looked downright _filthy_. “Wouldn’t be the first time around me, love.”

Emma rolled her eyes, finally walking away from the table and back to where Ruby was doing a terrible job of pretending not to watch the encounter in full. As he made for the door, Killian tipped his fingers to his temple in a salute before leaving, and Emma was glad he didn’t make a big deal out of the whole thing. It then occurred to her she’d just agreed to go on some midnight adventure with a man she barely knew who apparently had vivid memories of how she looked naked; potentially not the best idea she’d ever had. 

“So?” Ruby pressed, eager for details. 

“Nuh uh. You get _nothing_ after setting me up like that.” Her friend’s abashed look confirmed Emma’s suspicions. “How do you even know Killian?”

Ruby simply shrugged playfully and deigned not to answer. 

***

Emma couldn’t quite shake the schoolgirl-going-on-her-first-date sensation that had her hopping from foot to foot outside Granny’s, checking her watch every few seconds to watch the minute hand creep quicker to midnight. They’d finished a little earlier than they’d intended, and the only way to avoid Ruby’s constant quips about her midnight rendezvous with Killian Jones was to do her waiting outside, which she then did so, bag slung over her shoulder. Yes, he was abominably good looking, but there was no shortage of those sorts of men around Storybrooke. He was also charismatic, hilarious and made for extremely fun company, all of which were facts she could under no circumstances admit to him. All she knew was that when they were alone together, her instincts were to throw up walls and resist him. It was when she was left to her own thoughts that she couldn’t quite place why she was always so abrasive with him when all he’d been was perfectly lovely to her. 

God, the morning after they slept together he offered to cook her _breakfast_. When Emma looked back on that refusal all she could picture was a very shirtless, very amused Killian frying bacon by her stove and that was not an image she could take home with her. It felt like she was violating Mary Margaret's home. 

And somehow she expected spending the evening with him wouldn’t take that vision away.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a tap on her shoulder and she jumped, startled, looking up into Killian’s smiling face. She hadn’t even heard him approach. 

“Ready, Swan?”

“For what, exactly?”

Killian tapped his nose, holding out his free arm to her. “Now now, love. That would spoil the surprise.” 

“I don’t like surprises,” Emma groused, “especially ones that come at midnight. I’m _tired_.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

Emma grinned then, she couldn’t quite resist the urge. “That what you said to me last week?”

Killian merely stared at her, and she observed that for a moment he was probably stunned by her engaging with the innuendo. Then he simply offered his arm again more insistently, sending a mock glare in her direction. Throwing all her misgivings to the wind, Emma took it and allowed him to lead them down the street. 

“You can at least tell me where we’re going.” 

Killian laughed. “Oh I can, can I? I’m beginning to work out conversation with you, Emma Swan. All I have to do is what I’m told and then we get along just fine.” 

“Works for me. And don’t avoid the question.” 

“We’re going down to the docks,” he conceded, “and that’s all I’m saying.”

“Why?”

“Gods, Swan! Can’t a man keep any bloody secrets?”

Truthfully Emma was enjoying pestering _him_ for a change, it felt good to get off the back foot and apply a little pressure, and so far his responses had been nothing but pleasing. Killian had a sharp wit and she enjoyed the verbal spar, something they kept up until they reached the waterfront. The distant sounds of music and yelling could be heard, and she knew there was probably some sort of after party for that evening’s gigs along the seafront towards the beach — which, again, begged the question of why Killian wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d attended for the few hours she was finishing her shift, or was planning on taking her there now. She’d just about convinced herself he’d be taking her to the beach to coerce her into another night of boozing and flirting so he might lure her back into bed, when they turned in the opposite direction and headed back along the boardwalk towards the warehouses. 

“They’ll be locked, Jones. Tech crew close them straight up once everybody’s out,” Emma pointed out as he tugged her in the direction of Warehouse 4. 

“That’s the thing about locks,” Killian dropped his arm momentarily to rummage about in his pocket, withdrawing his prize, “they all have keys.”

He turned back to the door and began clicking the mechanism, but Emma was entirely stunned. “Where the hell did you get that?” Keys to the Warehouses were like the holy grail of sound crews. There were very few, they regularly got lost and under no circumstances were any of them ever handed out to the musicians. 

Killian winked. “I have my ways. After you, m’lady.” 

Emma gave him a disbelieving look as she walked past him and into the huge building. 

The warehouses made for good sound spaces — the high ceilings and the reinforced walls provided excellent acoustics, and their size meant they could always fit in a healthy audience. They were usually capped at around three hundred for health and safety reasons, but generally an extra fifty could squeeze in on a popular night if they knew the right people. Currently, the dim, dark building was entirely empty aside from a few pieces of equipment at the other end, and a single chair sitting a few feet from the stage. 

“What are we doing here, Killian?” Although she had a feeling she already knew. 

“Well,” Killian began, shutting the door behind them, “Seeing as you missed out on the Jolly Rogers tonight, I figured I could bring the Jolly Rogers to _you_.” 

Emma laughed. “No offence, but I can only see one Jolly Roger.” 

“Yes, but he’s the _best_ Jolly Roger. And also the only one available at such short notice. Here, look.” Killian jogged past, waving his arms rather dramatically at the empty seat, and despite herself Emma couldn’t quite hold back the grin that was threatening to break out. 

The gesture itself was, frankly — touching. Not nearly as suggestive an evening as she’d riled herself up to expect. Emma thumped down onto the seat, not bothering to be any bit as graceful as she could be, it was likely Killian had already seen her at her worst anyway. As she did so Killian had hopped up onto the stage, and was currently adjusting microphones and plugging in his guitar, hammering out a few riffs and pausing every few moments to adjust his amp until he finished with a sound he was happy with. After he tested the microphone again Emma held a hand to her mouth and called. 

“Oi, when does the show start? I want my money back!” 

With that, Killian stepped back up to the microphone with a wide grin, eyes settling somewhere over her head as if he were talking to the great crowd that was likely here earlier in the evening. 

“Good evening, ladies and scurvy dogs! Sorry, I’m going to have to ask members of the audience not to heckle — hecklers will be forcibly removed from the premises, thank you.” His voice ricocheted against the empty walls, reverberating in the huge building. “We—well, _I_ —are the Jolly Rogers!” 

Emma chuckled, but that didn’t seem to be the reaction he was going for. 

“I _said_ , we’re the Jolly Rogers!” He waved an arm as an invitation for noise and Emma took his cue, clapping loudly and whistling a few times. “Much better. Audiences just don't know how to show appreciation these days." Emma shook her head in mock offence. "Anyway, we’ve prepared a couple of songs for you tonight so sit back, relax and enjoy the show.” 

Which, Emma was surprised to say, she did. 

With only the lead guitarist present, Killian certainly made an effort to downplay the five songs he played — he primarily stuck to what Tina’s parts consisted of, chords that somewhat accompanied the rhythm with the occasional rapid phrase thrown in and it was here, not in the recording studio, that Emma got a real idea of what he was like as a guitarist. There was something decidedly intimate about it that she wasn't sure what to make of. She wished more than anything else that she’d brought her camera so that she might capture the moment, but somehow she wasn’t sure it would even translate onto the lens. He was thoughtful as he played, but not methodical; there was much room for improvisation, and he made no apologies for the moments he messed up, laughing them off or playing them up and repeating them for comedic effect. The third time he’d said octopus instead of optimist Emma had scarcely been able to contain her giggles, and she could tell from the glances he was sending her way that it had been his intention entirely. 

The thing that was really messing with her resolve, though, was the eye contact. Killian didn’t sustain it throughout, occasionally playing up to the larger crowd that did not exist (and Emma couldn’t help but consider how this man could probably control a venue with ease, how he had an ability to captivate she was sure translated well to an assembly of such a size). That said, on the occasions he did look at her he looked _directly_ at her, like if he were to stare at her any harder he might burn a hole in her skull. It was penetrative and it was nearly carnal and Emma didn’t know what else to do except stare back, until his fretboard or sense of humour caught his attention and the oceanic intensity to his pale blue eyes was gone again. 

They stayed like that for perhaps forty-five minutes, Killian pausing between each song to rattle off an anecdote about the writing progress or an adventure in Storybrooke he’d experienced recently, and Emma was enjoying the show as a whole — the songs itself were one thing, but the entire set worked so well with his style of humour that she couldn’t help appreciating it from a professional standing. It made her more sorry than she’d been before that she hadn’t come to the whole concert, nor been able to see just how Killian would bounce off Tina, and Robin and August, and it was indeed a shame but alas, still out of her control. 

By the time Killian plucked the final few notes in the ending riff of Survivor, Emma was on her feet clapping. 

“Thank you,” Killian spoke into the mic, “thanks everyone!” 

Then once he stepped back and lifted his guitar from round his shoulders by the strap, the entire act was dropped and he was seeing Emma, just Emma, again. 

“Well?”

The only words she could come up with sounded empty and not nearly emphatic enough. She tried, all the same. “Incredible,” she assured, “and I mean that. You guys are going to go far. Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”

Killian’s pleased expression seemed to make it all the more worth it. 

It took him only fifteen minutes or so to pack away the equipment, Emma helping where she could, but soon enough she was trying to suppress yawns into a hand covering her mouth — she couldn’t help it, she’d been on her feet for almost eight hours before allowing Killian to lead her to the docks, and it was already closing in on half past one in the morning. Traditionally Emma was never opposed to a late night, but she tended to make a point of avoiding those after a long shift at Granny’s. Killian offered to walk her home, and after the private concert he’d arranged just for her she was touched by the sweetness of the gesture in a way she might not normally, biting back a remark about being able to walk herself home. Besides, he was getting to know her quite well at this point; he was probably well aware she didn’t need him without her having to point it out. 

When they approached the door to the loft, Emma hesitated — what if he was expecting an invitation inside? It was late, after all, and it’d otherwise just be him walking home alone. She tensed a little and perhaps Killian sensed it, maintaining a good amount of space between the pair of them as Emma turned, keeping her back to the door. 

“So,” he said, talking brightly as if it might alleviate a little tension, “worthy of a second outing?”

Emma didn’t bother supressing the way her mouth lifted on one side, watching him with an air of playful consideration instead. “Hm… maybe.” 

Probably realising he’d made significant progress tonight, Killian persisted. “Maybe one in more sociable hours of the day?”

She considered how little sleep she was going to get tonight. “Is there such a thing?”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I’ll be recording at the Dive all day tomorrow. I’m not saying I love grilled cheese sandwiches from Granny’s and that I won’t have time to go out and get myself one — but if I _were_ saying that,” he tilted his head, eyes teasing and inviting, “feel free to interpret it as an invitation to spend time with me.”

Emma let out a short laugh. “Whatever you say, tiger.” 

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, then?”

“Pretty confident, are we?” 

Killian smirked, and she couldn’t remember when he’d taken a step forward. “Just a tad.”

For a moment they stood there, the space between them she had initially valued all but squeezed out, watching each other with a sense of apprehension. Emma saw Killian’s gaze flicker very briefly to her lips and she began to panic. Going out with him again was one thing, enjoying it was quite another — but that didn’t change the fact that she wasn’t sure she was _ready_ for that kind of consideration. Killian was easier to fend off when she thought of him as her one night stand, not a potential romantic interest. Then her mind was already spinning back to thoughts of Neal Cassidy dropping her off at this very door after attending concerts together and her heart rate was already racing to a mile a minute, thumping so loudly against her ribcage she was sure Killian must have been able to hear it. 

“Emma,” he murmured, wrenching her back to reality, “would it be alright if I kissed you?”

Something in her eyes must have given him a confirmation because he leaned forward, but it was suddenly all a little too much and she found herself leaning away. Killian saw the movement and immediately drew back, avoiding her gaze and she could see him open his mouth to likely blurt out an apology, so she spoke quickly to stop him and try and salvage the situation. 

“Not that — don’t take that the wrong way,” she assured, hands reaching up to brush lightly over his lapels as she hurried to stop him from looking so awkwardly apologetic, “I just… need to sort out what I’m thinking.” She ducked her head so she could catch his eye, and forced him to look back up at her. “That okay?”

“Yes — of course, love,” he said, attempting to recover from his discomfort and forcing a brief smile she knew was more for her than for himself. “Grilled cheese tomorrow, then?”

Emma offered him a genuine smile. “It’s a date.”

“A third date in twenty-four hours,” the teasing lilt returned to Killian’s tone, “my game is superb today.”

She rolled her eyes, hands dropping from his jacket. “There you go, killing the moment.”

“Wait, wait — that was a moment?” Emma merely laughed, reaching into her pocket for her keys. Killian’s hands moved to still her movements. “No, c’mon, come back, we’ll start again.”

“It’s gone, Killian.” She tugged her hands away, suppressing a smile as she turned to unlock the door. 

“No it hasn’t.” He sounded like a petulant child. 

“I’m going inside.” 

Killian shook his head. “You’re cruel, Swan. Very cruel.” 

“Goodnight, Killian,” she said over her shoulder, entering the loft. 

He murmured his own farewells, and Emma waited on the other side of the door until she could hear his footsteps fading away. 

So much for keeping him out of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more part! or maybe two. these guys control themselves..


	4. and-then-it-went-tits-up-just-my-luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, a HUGE thank you to everybody who has left kudos or comments so far, it honestly makes my day every single time! enjoy this one <3

Several grilled cheese sandwiches packed into a bag in her left hand, Emma buzzed at the door to the Storybrooke Dive for the third time to no avail — either nobody was home or they were so wrapped up in their recording that none of them heard the buzzer. She tried again for the main reception and received no answer, and from pressing her forehead to the glass of the door she could see the receptionist was away from her desk. Somewhat at a loss of what to do with the food she was carrying, Emma decided she may as well linger and wait for the receptionist to return. Perhaps then she could surprise the Jolly Rogers. 

Emma had gone to Granny’s that morning with the intention of buying lunch just for herself and Killian, as per the vague promise she’d made him at her door the night before, but then decided she’d feel far too guilty turning up to one of their recording sessions without offerings for the rest of the band, so after spending a little more than she was comfortable with she had enough food for a small banquet. What the hell, she liked the other members of the group — they might not set her heart racing the same way Killian Jones did, but they were each a pleasure to be around in their own right and likely in need of a reward after their performance at the docks last night. Regina had attended in order to pick up a few details for the finishing touches of their piece on them to be released in that morning’s Storybrooke Mirror, and had done nothing but sing their praises when Emma stopped by the office earlier. Which was a rare enough occurrence for Regina; and if she spent a little _too_ long commenting on the particular prowess of the Jolly Rogers’ drummer, well, Emma had decided not to notice. 

She was just beginning to contemplate buzzing for a fourth time when the door to the Dive opened, and none other than the aforementioned drummer stepped out. 

“Emma,” Robin greeted, mouth widening into a bright smile. “What a pleasant surprise! What brings you down here?”

“I brought lunch,” she replied, proffering the Granny’s bag with a small flourish. 

“Oh my word, if there’s a grilled cheese sandwich in there I might just kiss you now.” 

Emma grinned. “Now _there’s_ an offer I can’t refuse.” 

Robin chuckled in response, rummaging around in the pocket of his coat until he pulled out a box of cigarettes, offering one to Emma. She shook her head — she hadn’t smoked a single one since Neal had left town, and she didn’t intend to break the habit now. Although she was eager to see Killian (perhaps a little too eager, if she was honest) she didn’t see any reason not to wait for Robin to finish and go back inside with him, it’d help in combatting at least some of the awkwardness she already felt in tentatively stepping into his life.

“So did you come to the concert last night?” Robin asked, mouth moving around the cigarette as he lit it. 

Emma realised Killian must not have told the others about the private concert she received afterwards. “Afraid not, sorry. But Regina — my editor, Regina Mills — she went, said your set was outstanding. And she’s a harsh critic so you must have done something right.” 

“Oh yes, Regina,” the man smiled warmly, the crinkles around his eyes speaking of nothing but affection, “she came backstage, positively enchanting.” _Enchanting?_ Emma couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow; if Robin noticed it, he didn’t acknowledge it. “She’s your editor?”

“She put the piece out this morning about you guys. Have you seen the Mirror yet?”

“Yes, we have! Stunning shots, we’re very grateful. In fact we have a lot to be thanking you and Regina for.” Emma gave him a bemused look, not entirely sure what he meant. Seeing her confusion, Robin carried on. “Well, between our concert last night and the profile you put out this morning, our phone’s been ringing off the hook all day! We’ve had producers and managers from all over wanting to play with us, work with us. We’re finally _getting_ somewhere.”

Emma felt a surge of affection for the man in front of her — she was thrilled to have played even a minor role in getting the Jolly Rogers on the move. Hundreds of bands found their way into Storybrooke for whatever reason, looking for just the kind of break that Robin appeared to be describing, and often not for a lack of talent they never found them. There was so much wasted potential that never quite made that leap, but apparently the Jolly Rogers had chosen just the right moment. They were going to do it, and she’d helped them. 

“That’s fantastic!” Emma beamed, squeezing his arm with her free hand. “I don’t suppose Killian is about? I’d love to congratulate him too.” 

If Robin gave her a knowing look she certainly chose to ignore it. Instead he tapped the end of his cigarette, letting the ash float to the ground. “We’re all in a meeting, actually. I just stepped outside for a moment. One of the bunch who rang us up was the manager for Blackbeard’s Revenge — their tour begins in a few days and their opening act pulled out at the last minute. Turns out their bassist was at our show last night and now they want _us_. How amazing is that?”

It was definitely a big deal — Emma remembered Blackbeard’s Revenge, they’d passed through Storybrooke a few years ago before hitting their own big break and never coming back. Now they had a nationwide following that was only growing, and one of their singles had even scraped its way into the Top 40. Not by much, but it was a huge deal for their genre, and just one more export from Storybrooke the town liked to lay claim to. If the Jolly Rogers ended up opening for them it wasn’t entirely farfetched to believe they’d never have to come back to Storybrooke either. 

Only as _that_ thought crossed her mind did Emma quite realise the implications of all the impromptu attention the band was receiving. First would come a tour, then an album, then national fame. Once they were on the road there would be no reason to return to Storybrooke. 

No reason for _Killian_ to return to Storybrooke. 

It wasn’t entirely unexpected, was it? Nothing was permanent where this town was concerned, especially within the music industry — this was just a place to pass the time, to wait until a better offer whisked you away. Killian Jones was never going to be there forever, wasn’t that what she’d told herself the last time she was standing outside of this building? Just somewhere over the past couple of days she’d allowed that fact to slip her mind almost entirely, ignored everything she already knew about the musicians that passed through Storybrooke. The Jolly Rogers weren’t destined to stay, and she’d forgotten it. Emma had let herself get carried away by the smouldering, inviting blue of Killian’s eyes and had forgotten it _entirely_. 

“It’s — it’s great,” Emma said, forcing some enthusiasm into her tone, before continuing, “I’m almost disappointed. I only just met you guys and you’re already shooting off to stardom.” 

Robin spread his hands, finally stubbing out the cigarette. “Such is life, I suppose. That said, I’m certain this won’t be the last you’ll hear from us. And we won’t be leaving until the beginning of next week anyway, God willing.” He offered her a final wink, reaching for the door back inside as he added in a guttural, pirate’s voice, “There’s naught can outrun the Jolly Roger.” When he noticed she wasn’t following, Robin held the door open. “You coming?”

Emma tugged herself back to the moment. “Uh — no, that’s alright. I just came to drop this off. Here,” she held out the Granny’s bag for him to take, “tell everybody I stopped by.” 

Robin again offered his profuse thanks for the grilled cheese before bidding her a cheerful goodbye and heading back upstairs, leaving Emma at somewhat of a loss outside. It was silly for her to be upset about it, or at least that’s what she was telling herself — she and Killian weren’t even a _something_. They were barely even a _thought_ of a something, an idea that hadn’t fully formed. Which, recent events considered, was probably for the best given he’d probably be out of town in no time at all. At least this way she wasn’t overly attached to him before he went. While almost all day she’d been somewhat regretting the split-second decision to lean away from Killian at her door last night, now she could only count it as a blessing. At least now it was easier to remember what he was; a one night stand, and one she had begun to view a little too indulgently.

He was just like every other musician she’d ever allowed into her apartment. They were there, and then they weren’t, chasing their own dreams while Emma could scarcely remember what hers even were. 

Sparing a final glance at the door of the Dive, Emma started off down the street back in the direction of the Storybrooke Mirror offices; time to get a new assignment. Sticking around the Jolly Rogers wasn’t exactly going to do her any favours, was it?

***

It was much, much later that evening when she finally heard from Killian. She’d thought he might text, but had belatedly realised she didn’t think they’d even swapped numbers, and she felt minutely guilty for not coming to see him as she’d promised. It would just be a lot better for all concerned if they didn’t let this turn into something it wasn’t, she was sure the last thing he’d want was someone tying him back to Storybrooke when his career was finally taking off. And frankly, Emma wasn’t the stay-at-home-and-wait kind of girl, even if her limited acquaintance with Killian Jones could actually be considered worth it. The more time she was left alone with her thoughts the easier this decision seemed. 

She was currently dressed in sweats, sat on her couch in the apartment she shared with Mary Margaret and going over a few photos from the shoot she’d done that afternoon – it was somewhat of an impromptu one, Regina had nothing for her but she knew David would still be in town for a couple more weeks and he was always an easy artist to capture. Mary Margaret was acting as his roadie for as long as he was in town and usually Emma gave the couple their space to spend all their limited time together, but she’d needed some familiar faces after the news about the Jolly Rogers.

David Nolan was a solo artist, far more country than what usually rolled through Storybrooke, but it was years ago now that Emma and Mary Margaret had decided to attend one of his concerts — and it took only one look at his lumberjack shirt and timberland boots for her friend to fall in love, and after a few mishaps involving (among others) an accidental theft of David’s prized six-string, the pair had fallen into each other well enough. Her friend had toured with him that year, taken some time off work at the primary school and gone out to see the world. That was when Emma first met Neal Cassidy, desperately searching for some way to pass the time with one of her only true friends way out of town for months on end. 

Not exactly fond of the direction her thoughts were turning in, Emma refocused on the digital display in front of her. She held an endless amount of affection for David, and he always came across as gloriously straightforward whenever he was photographed — he was all that he seemed, open, loving, passionate about his art and he made Mary Margaret happier than Emma had ever known her. David Nolan would always hold a special place in Emma’s heart for that. 

Deciding she’d send a couple of the shots over to Regina in the morning, just to see if they could get one more advertisement out for a few of the gigs David had left to play while he was in Storybrooke, she only then heard a few firm thumps on the door of her apartment. 

Turning quickly to face it and frowning, she wondered if perhaps Mary Margaret had forgotten her key when a distinctly male voice called out to her. 

“Swan? I know you’re in there, the light is on.” 

Killian. Emma contemplated merely ignoring him, but figured she at least owed him a conversation after bailing today. She placed her camera gently down on the countertop and walked over to the door, opening it with a raised eyebrow. 

“I have a roommate,” she pointed out.

“I know,” Killian’s expression lit up in a teasing grin, “I was just guessing.” He tilted his head as if asking for permission to come inside, and after a moment’s hesitation Emma opened the door wider, gesturing for him to follow her in. “You know,” he began, as she shut the door behind him, “when I suggested bringing me a couple of grilled cheeses today I meant I wanted to enjoy them _with_ you, love, not have you drop them off like a delivery girl.” 

The comment was gently put, his tone jovial, but she could detect a hint of something a little more sombre underneath. Hurt? Disappointment? It wasn’t like Emma had committed herself, had she?

“You were in a meeting,” she offered, by way of a placation, “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I would’ve come out,” he insisted. 

Emma shrugged, turning away from him to walk behind the counter. Killian was left standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the loft, a far cry from the way he’d almost entirely owned the room the last time he was in there, staring intently at her wearing only his leather jacket, his shirt unbeknownst to her folded up on her kitchen counter. 

“Besides, Robin told me the big news,” she continued, busying herself by making another cup of coffee. “With all the attention you guys are getting I bet you had meetings back to back all day.”

“Ah, now it makes sense,” Killian mused, arms coming to rest on the counter. 

Seeing as the comment didn’t seem to be responding to what she said Emma sent him a quizzical look, and he merely gestured at the jar of instant coffee she was opening. Remembering his remarks the last time he was there about their unused coffee grinder, suddenly it made sense. Emma offered a breath of laughter; she would’ve found it funnier if she wasn’t trying to studiously forget that morning. The night was already forgotten, it was only the clearer memories of Killian that needed to go.

Perhaps realising he wasn’t going to get any further acknowledgement for his jest, Killian continued. “About earlier — well, yes, I suppose so. Some rather lovely photographer put out this highly flattering piece on us this morning and it’s done us a world of good.”

He was clearly trying to provoke her into an enjoyable repartee, dropping sweet comments with deliberate intent, perhaps attempting to draw out the Emma who’d spoken to him last night, who was flirtatious looks and sharp but affectionate remarks. Unfortunately, there was a tight lid on that Emma today. 

“Regina wrote the piece,” she demurred; despite herself, she still appreciated the praise. 

“Still,” he replied, looking straight at her with a measure of earnestness, “thank you, love.” 

Uncomfortable with the openness in his eyes Emma turned back to fill the kettle. “So — did you guys make any decisions today?”

“Yep,” Killian spoke with enthusiasm, rapping his hands on the counter, “We’ll be opening for the national tour of Blackbeard’s Revenge!” 

She couldn’t help but grin; she genuinely _was_ pleased for them. “Congratulations!” she smiled, leaning against the counter a few paces away while she waited for the kettle to boil. “When do you leave?”

Killian scratched behind his ear. “Next week, actually. So we’re hoping we’ll have at least recorded the bare bones of a couple of tracks for our EP to sell at concerts, then we can get something out with a little more panache on the back of the national exposure.” 

Emma nodded mutely along, turning back around and unnecessarily gathering the milk and cream a little early for her coffee just to have something to do. Killian seemed to pick up on her unease.

“Are you upset, Swan?”

“Why would I be upset?”

She could hear the teasing smile in his voice as he continued. “Will you miss me?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “ _Please_.”

She couldn’t help shaking the feeling they’d taken five steps backward. They were in much the same place they were the last time they’d been in that apartment together.

“Swan,” Killian spoke a little more insistently, “look at me.” 

Emma rolled her head around to look at him, took in his raised eyebrows; jokes aside, he was looking for a straight answer. 

“Maybe? I don’t know. Does it even matter?” She clicked her tongue, turning back away as the kettle clicked to a finish. 

“It’s only a few months. Would you consider —” Killian hesitated, tentative to suggest whatever was hovering on the tip of his tongue. “Whatever this could be, it's something good. Would you wait for me?”

Emma’s eyebrows knitted together as she poured. “So I can become one of the wives of Storybrooke? ‘When will my husband return from tour’?” That was Mary Margaret’s life, and she was okay with that. She didn’t mind that life, she loved David enough to make it work, but Emma could see how much she missed him while he was away. That wasn’t what she wanted for herself. “No thank you, really.”

“Then come with me.”

She turned to look at him, ready to laugh at the suggestion — but the severity in his expression stole the words from her. 

“I mean it,” he continued, as if detecting her doubt. “We both know Storybrooke is just a town you pass the time in, a stop along the way — not a destination. You can’t really tell me you imagine spending the rest of your life here?” She didn’t, but she wasn’t ready to admit that yet; because what else was there? Not the life she’d left behind in Boston, not the system. Storybrooke was all she’d known. “Come on tour with us, Swan. See what else the universe has in store for you.”

Emma was already shaking her head before he finished. “Killian, we’ve known each other, what — two weeks? We’ve only been having sober-minded conversations for a few days. You haven’t even kissed me since we slept together.”

“Not for lack of trying,” he muttered. 

Emma ignored him. “All I’m saying is maybe we should just own up to what this is and stop trying to make it something it’s not.” 

“And what would that be, Swan?” The bite in his tone was unmistakable. 

“A one night stand,” Emma replied resolutely, looking him dead in the eye and forcing herself to acknowledge the flinch of hurt, the way his gaze dropped. “And one that we’re seriously dragging out.” 

Killian was silent for a few moments, scratching behind his ear as his eyes drilled into the counter top. He seemed to be weighing up his response and Emma waited; she could at least give him this. It didn’t have to be messy, he could fall out of her life as easily as he tumbled in, he only had to see that too. 

“If that’s what you really think,” Killian began, after what seemed like an age, “I have a confession to make.” 

Emma raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. 

“We never slept together.” 

Her jaw dropped. “I — _what?_ ”

Killian tilted his head nonchalantly. “You and I never, in fact, had sex.”

Anger flared up instantly and her eyes narrowed into a glare. “Then what the _hell_ were you doing in my apartment?!” 

“Oh, there was every intention to, love, believe me,” he assured her, his hastiness to do so perhaps an attempt to assuage any fears of theft or the like, “every intention. You just, ah,” he again let his hand drift awkwardly to the back of his head, “you’d had a bit too much to drink and right when we were… getting going, you passed out.” Emma was too dumbfounded to even form a response, and she could feel a flush already beginning to colour her cheeks. She’d _passed out?_ How mortifying! The corner of Killian’s mouth quirked upwards. “Not the greatest compliment I’ve ever received, I assure you.”

Emma was still wrapping her mind around the revelation, but all she knew was that she was feeling defensive — the quickest way to combat her embarrassment was through irritation, and frankly she had every reason to be _pissed_. Killian had been misleading her for _days_ , in pretty much their every conversation! She was suddenly justifiably indignant, fired up at the man standing in front of her. 

“Then — then _why_ have you been going on about it so much for the past couple of days?”

Killian’s voice rose slightly to mirror her own, meeting her fury with exasperation. “Because somebody being interested in you for emotional rather than sexual reasons is something you’re so receptive to, is it?” 

“You don’t know me,” Emma shot back fiercely. 

“I know you better than you think,” he retorted, “we actually _talked_ , Emma. For a good hour or so before you grabbed me and kissed me. You were absolutely off your tits and refused to let me buy you any drinks but despite your best efforts, Swan, I was utterly charmed by you.” 

The ardour of his words left them hovering between them, filling what quickly became a particularly pregnant pause — now all of his cards were on the table, she supposed, he was waiting for her reaction. As it was she still couldn’t entirely believe she’d been labouring under such a huge apprehension; she had never slept with Killian Jones. It at least explained why she couldn’t remember it, but part of her couldn’t help the feeling of deflation that threatened to overwhelm her. She and Killian weren’t anything, and now they weren’t even a one night stand. Although given how he’d omitted that particular piece of information in an attempt to use it to manipulate her into liking him, she didn’t think he was somebody she particularly _wanted_ to be connected to. He was just like every other man she bothered to let into her life.

“So… we never slept together?” Emma began slowly, wanting to make sure everything was becoming clearer in her mind. 

Killian shook his head. “No.” 

“Meaning you’re a liar _and_ you’re leaving town,” she scoffed, “both clearly conducive points for starting a relationship.”

In a moment, Killian had stepped as close to her as the counter between them would allow, and she was immediately grateful for the barrier. 

“How about the fact that I like you — that I _care_ about you?” he protested urgently, “And I know you care about me too — if you’d bloody stop _thinking_ for a moment and just _feel_.”

Emma was shaking her head, eyebrows knitting together but her entire posture firm. “I don’t care about you, Killian,” she responded, her tone turning to steel, her walls firmly in place. “I _considered_ you. And now you’re out of the question.”

The transformation in his expression from a sense of dogged determination to one of undisguised hurt was painfully slow, and when his eyes finally rose to hers again she could see the way her words had stung. Feelings of remorse swelled up within her but she forced them down with a practiced ease — Killian Jones was nothing to her, and in a few days he’d be gone for good. His confession just made coming to terms with that a hell of a lot easier. 

“I think you should go,” Emma added gently. This time he didn’t offer any means of protest.

In a few short seconds she was holding the door open for him, and Killian stepped past her without another word. As he began descending the stairs she felt compelled to offer him something else. 

“Have a good tour, Killian.” 

He hesitated, but didn’t turn around. After half a minute she heard the door to the building close, and Emma tried in vain to quell the disappointed feeling churning around in her gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eep, please don't hate me! the angst happened sorta by accident. I keep telling myself ~this~ chapter is when it's going to finish but this keeps getting longer and longer! a few of you already predicted that other twist too, so props to you guys ;) if you're enjoying this let me know what you thought!


	5. um-and-why-is-everyone-ganging-up-on-me-now-excuse-yourselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time to face the music. this has turned into a multi-chapter. GODDAMN. haha. well I hope you guys enjoy all the same!

“So,” Ruby began, the word lilting upwards with just enough length to be an invitation for something more, and an immediate indication that Emma would not like whatever would follow. “How was your date with Killian?”

Emma merely spared her friend a withering look, focusing on wiping down the table top at Granny’s. With no jobs available that Regina could swing her way, Emma had resorted to picking up a few more shifts at the diner just to have something to do with her days — she needed something to convince herself she wasn’t counting down the hours until Monday morning, currently three days away, when Blackbeard’s Revenge would be departing Storybrooke for their national tour. And taking with them a few other select individuals she knew she would miss. 

August, yes; Robin, definitely. Tina she supposed. Killian? Not a jot. 

“It was nice,” Emma answered, if only to placate Ruby (knowing her friend wouldn’t leave her alone until she admitted something), “and then it was over.” 

Succinct, but truthful. Killian had been nice, until she realised he wasn’t. 

Her ears still reddened every time her thoughts strayed to the fact that they never even slept together, that she’d _passed out_ like a teenager before they’d gotten any further than second base. That Killian had _known_ this and let her believe it had happened anyway. At that point her feelings of embarrassment usually gave way to those of annoyance, each time steeling her resolve just that little bit more against seeking him out before he left town. He’d made his choice from the very first moment they’d met; he’d chosen to lie to her, and now he could deal with the consequences. 

“Cryptic,” Ruby smirked, “what did you guys do?”

Apparently her dull looks weren’t enough to deter her friend down this line of questioning. 

“We went down to where he’d had his gig and he played me a private show,” she reported blankly, finishing wiping down the table and moving back to the counter. She could see Ruby’s excitement mount, her friend was likely to squeal or emit something else equally frightening, so Emma continued quickly, “and then he proved himself to be just as much of an asshole as every other guy I’ve dated. At least this time there were no handcuffs involved.”

“Handcuffs can be _good_.” Emma fixed her friend with a glare. “But, obviously, not in He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named's case.” Ruby brushed her hair over her shoulder turning briefly to a couple who had just entered and taking down their order in record time. “What did Killian do that was so bad anyway?”

“He asked me to go on tour with him.” 

“The _cheek_.”

“Ruby,” she admonished. “He then admitted he’d kept something pretty major from me and I don’t really want to be talking about this anymore.” It would be so much better if she could just pretend the whole Killian blip had never happened and go back to the way her life was before, without Ruby’s pouting looks or Mary Margaret’s raised eyebrows when she’d tumbled out of bed that morning wearing the shirt Killian had left behind the first time he’d been to their apartment. 

(It was all she had left. Everything else was in the laundry.) 

(Probably.) 

“I’ve known Killian a while,” Ruby shrugged, reaching back towards the kitchen to collect a meal headed for a table at the back, “all I’m saying is he’s one of the good guys.”

“He’s a narcissist and a pig.” 

“He can be all three of those things simultaneously and you know it. Just look at Victor.” 

At this Emma cracked a smile. “Victor is _just_ a narcissist.” 

Ruby sighed. “Don’t I know it?” She clicked her tongue, pinching Emma'swaist before walking away. “He’s amazing in bed, that’s the only way I can defend myself.”

Another defence Emma couldn’t assign to the amount of time she was spending thinking about Killian Jones. So he’d been an asshole, what was new? Wasn’t every guy that happened to roll through Storybrooke just the same? Except, maybe, David Nolan, but it ran to reason that the only decent man would fall in love with the only decent woman the town had to offer. That was the only way Emma could admit the existence of fairness in a world like theirs. 

Three days, that was all. Three days until Blackbeard’s Revenge were gone.

Emma fixed on a bright grin, turning to the most recent customer to walk up to the counter.

***

When her shift finally ended, mercifully without any more questions about a certain guitarist, Emma left the diner with her bag and switched back on her cell — only to have four missed calls from an unknown number. Emma rarely answered her phone to numbers she didn’t know anyway, but given they’d rung four times it was clear they were trying to get hold of her. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it was Killian, but also _wow_ , the fact that everything in her brain was short-circuited to him needed to stop, like, _now_ , and she was also pretty certain she never gave him her number anyway. She didn’t particularly want to be the person ringing whomever it was, so she figured if it was important they’d try and get in touch with her again. 

She was right, but her cell didn’t ring again that evening. 

Instead she was met with a few loud raps at her door while she and Mary Margaret were settling down to watch a film. The sisters threw one look at each other and knew they weren’t expecting anyone.

“David?” Emma suggested. 

“Performing until late.”

Another few knocks sounded. 

“This is the part where you suggest one of _my_ friends that could be at the door,” Emma continued wryly, standing all the same to go and see who it was. 

“Why? All your friends are in this room.”

Emma did the mature thing and stuck out her tongue at her friend, opening the door slowly only to blink in surprise when the eager faces of three Jolly Rogers were staring back at her. Before she could even open her mouth to fire off the most obvious question, Robin spoke up with a sheepish smile. 

“We _did_ call.”

Emma tilted her head, surveying them all standing a little awkwardly on her doorstep before relenting, stepping back so the three of them could come inside. Killian was notably missing, but she couldn’t help but be relieved with the fact — she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to face him yet, given she wasn’t entirely certain whether she’d hug him and apologise or punch him in the face. It tended to flip depending on the direction of her thoughts. Mary Margaret, for her part, was peeking over the edge of the sofa to try and get a good look at the newcomers, when Emma realised they hadn’t actually met before. 

“Mary Margaret — August, Robin, Tina. Jolly Rogers — Mary Margaret.” The three musicians offered their own greetings as her sister stood to come over and join them. 

“I saw your profile in the Mirror yesterday,” she said, extending her trademark friendliness to the relative strangers, “very flattering.” 

“We have Emma to thank for that,” August demurred.

“For the last time, Regina wrote the profile.” Why did everybody seem so intent on pinning this all on her? “I just pointed the camera in the right direction.” 

Mary Margaret nudged her lightly with her shoulder. “She’s modest.”

“She’s _confused_ ,” Emma corrected, “what the hell are you all doing here?”

“We’ve been ringing for a few hours,” Robin offered, as if that justified their being on her doorstep at near enough eight o’clock in the evening, “Regina was kind enough to give us your number, but your cell kept going straight to voicemail. Smee suggested we just wait until tomorrow but, well, I told you the good news — time is rather of the essence here.” 

Emma folded her arms, eyeing them sceptically. “What do you want?”

“A photographer,” Tina interjected, “a good one.”

“To come on tour with us.”

Emma’s gaze flitted disbelievingly between Tina and Robin, the two had uttered the offending sentences — _they_ wanted her to tour with them? Her initial thought was that they were acting as emissaries for Killian, but from what she had garnered at least regarding August’s nature, it wasn’t exactly his style to intrude on somebody's private life in such a way. The only other explanation was that they genuinely needed a photographer on tour, for whatever reason, and they’d thought of her; something that, while heart-warming, had to also be a wild coincidence given her conversation with Killian the day before. 

“You’re not serious,” the corner of Emma’s mouth quirked upwards, just a tiny bit — there was something hugely ironic about it. 

In response, Robin and Tina spared each other a tentative glance before launching into an explanation. 

“We’re still in the process of constructing our image, as it were,” Robin began, “we’ve been a band for a long time, but mainly as a hobby — we only really started taking it seriously this past year, hence the move to Storybrooke and the EP and requesting profiles from the Mirror. One of the main issues is we left a lot of our comparatively tiny fanbase out of state. We’re pretty much working from the ground up here.” 

He’d barely finished speaking when Tina jumped in, her eyes dancing and mouth almost moving faster than Emma could keep up with. “This will be our first national tour. Smee recommended we get a good photojournalist out on the road with us, someone to go to our gigs, take candids; start working on cultivating our public faces, as it were. Somebody who can start marketing ‘us’ so we can attract the attention of a good label.”

“And we want you, Emma,” August punctuated that statement with a subtle but definite point in her direction with a free hand, “If you’ll have us.” 

Emma was still processing just _what_ they were asking when Robin was speaking again. 

“We sent Killian around yesterday to ask — he said you said no, but…” 

He gave Tina a pointed look, who snorted derisively. “We were a little worried about just how he might have asked you.” 

“He’s a bit of a prick.” This Robin spoke in an exaggerated whisper, as if Killian might have his ear pressed to the other side of her door.

Emma shrugged, Killian’s earnest expression and his request for her to go with _him_ as opposed to the Jolly Rogers kept flitting its way across her consciousness, the entire conversation replaying for the nth time that day. “He, uh,” the lump in Emma’s throat made it difficult to report to the others what had happened, “yeah, he made it seem like _he_ was the one asking, not…” She waved a hand in their vague direction, considering only afterwards it might have appeared dismissive, “all of you.” 

Tina folded her arms irritably. “Trust Killian to make it all about him.”

August chose that moment to step forward, moving closer to her and leaning against the counter. It was August Emma had found the most intimidating from the first day — Robin and Tina were familiar personalities to her, Killian too, loud, occasionally abrasive, full of good humour. Which wasn’t to say August _wasn’t_ , he was just more often than not silently observing exchanges, offering his opinion only when requested. He brooded, and Emma had never known quite what to do with other people who acted just as she did. There was something of herself in August, and that was what made him hard to predict. 

“We want you, Emma, please tour with us,” he requested with his usual calm. Emma wondered if the same nervous energy flew from his heart to the tips of his fingers in the same way hers did. “It’s just three months and we love your work.” 

“We’ll pay you, of course,” Tina hastened to add. 

Robin nodded vigorously. “Handsomely, even.”

Emma merely raised a sceptical eyebrow, the side of her mouth tilting slightly upwards. “Can you guys afford that?” She was more than aware of their dour financial situation. 

“Not in the slightest,” Robin replied cheerfully, clapping his hands together. “The manager of Blackbeard’s Revenge offered to cover a wage for you if you’ll shoot them too. He was very impressed by the work Regina showed him today.”

Regina again? Emma was beginning to think this was a conspiracy to get her out of town; the next thing she knew Mary Margaret would be turning around and threatening to turf her out. Killian, the Jolly Rogers, her _boss_ — at this point she was more inclined to remain in Storybrooke if only so she could dig her heels in and be stubborn. She didn’t like the way it felt like decisions were being made for her, this was her life and she’d do with it what she wanted. If that meant not being with the man everybody seemed to think so highly of or avoiding a lucrative business opportunity, that was down to her; and if those two scenarios weren’t entirely mutually exclusive, it was nobody’s concern but hers. 

She tilted her head, shrugging with one shoulder. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.” 

“Because of Killian?” Tina’s olive green eyes were practically ablaze. 

“Because of _me_ ,” Emma shot back, feeling a spike of irritation before she pushed it back down. The three of them were stood there looking so earnest, she felt she at least owed them something. “And a little because of Killian, I guess. Look, I just — I’m not sure I can uproot my life like that, not now.” 

This left them at something of a loss, until finally August shrugged. “Well, you don’t have to make a decision right now.” 

“I mean, prompt is the word,” Tina groused. At the accusatory looks from her bandmates she held up her hands in a placating gesture. “So we can find somebody else if we need to, obviously.” After a beat of silence she huffed, putting her hands on her hips. “When I get hold of Killian I’m going to wring his little English neck.” 

“You’ll have to get in line,” Emma muttered. 

Another moment’s brief awkwardness, before August made their excuses and he and Tina started heading for the door, offering their best wishes and final imploring looks for her to accept their offer. Emma studiously avoided them, gaze flickering to Robin as he lingered. 

The man looked so uncertain, but Emma didn’t have anything to say that would be of any reassurance. “Listen, Emma,” he rubbed the back of his neck as he tentatively began, “whatever he did, don’t say no to us on account of Killian Jones. He’s a bloody idiot at the best of times and a bastard at the worst, but this would mean the world to us. We’re quite fond of you.” She couldn’t help the soft smile he managed to lure from her at that, and he responded in kind. “And I won’t presume to say this tour would be beneficial for you and for your work too, but… it’d be a right laugh, in any case.”

Emma offered him the only real response she could muster. “I’ll think about it, I promise.” 

With a final torpid farewell, he followed his friends out into the hallway.

Mary Margaret, who had watched the entire exchange with interest, was the one to cross the room and shut the door behind him. 

“So,” she began brightly and Emma pressed a hand to her forehead. 

“I really don’t have the patience for a motivating chase-your-dreams speech right now.”

Mary Margaret looked offended at the mere suggestion. “I was just going to ask who Killian Jones was.” 

“Tall, no shirt. British. You found him in your hallway?”

Her friend’s eyebrows knitted together, recognition tied to bemusement. “Your one-and-done from two weeks ago?”

Emma sighed. “More like one-and-doesn’t-know-when-to-quit.” Not that she’d admit she’d spent at least _some_ of that time encouraging him. “In fact, it wasn’t even a one. We’re officially a zero. Or we were, now I guess we’re something like negative five.”

“You realise you aren’t making sense, right?”

The blonde groaned, burying her face in her hands and resting her elbows on the counter. 

“Look, Emma — I know I’m not your real sister —”

Muffled by her hands, came the sharp, “I said _no_ motivating speeches.” 

“Consider this some friendly advice, then,” Mary Margaret sat herself opposite Emma, not obtrusively but just close enough for her to be reminded she was there. “You’re a sister to me in every sense of the word; the main one perhaps being my wanting you to be _happy_. And here an opportunity knocks that could very well do that and you’re dismissing it. I can see you doing it.” 

Emma dropped her hands, giving her sister a dull look. “And how would spending the next three months living in a cramped tour bus with Tina Bell and three blokes, one of whom I would be quite happy stringing up by his thumbs, make me happy?”

“I’m not talking about the company Emma, I mean the photojournalism.” 

It had always been a hobby; something Neal had encouraged her to pick up. Not exactly the key to her happiness, and the curiosity in her expression probably expressing as such. 

“You know I love my job,” Mary Margaret continued, “I love the school, I love the kids. I also loved being a roadie the year I went touring with David.” A smile touched her features at the memory. “It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, agreeing to go with him — you know that. But it was also worthwhile, rewarding, and _hard_. If I’d thought for one second that being on the road would be where I was happiest I’d have stayed. But I like being here.” She shrugged then, gaze drifting over the rest of the loft. “And sad as it is to admit it, you don’t.” 

“I do,” Emma protested weakly.

“Do you?” her friend raised her eyebrows. “Do you remember when you first moved in with me? When you were finally old enough to get out of the system? You were _bored_. It was all fun and games living with your sister until you realised that music was all Storybrooke had to offer. When I told David I’d tour with him I was actually a little afraid you might have packed up and left without my being here to keep you.” 

Emma opened her mouth to respond, before closing it and giving a small shrug. “You’re being dramatic.” 

“If you hadn’t met Neal you would’ve been gone by the time I got home. He got you involved in all this, he bought you your first camera.”

“With stolen money,” she muttered.

“ _Regardless_ of later revelations about his character, he did a good thing for you, Emma. I’ve never seen you happier than those two years you’d go to gigs and come back with a thousand photos, filling portfolios — when you first started talking to Regina about doing this seriously for the paper.” She remembered, she could remember it all; and with every moment came Neal’s nonchalant smile, Neal not telling her about his financial trouble, Neal probably planning to leave her in the lurch from the start. Neal with her the evening before he left when he slipped the stolen watch onto her wrist and kissed her just below the strap. It was hard to remember all the good things without everything else springing forth. 

“But Neal is gone, for good, and it’s time for you to take responsibility for your own happiness.”

Emma looked down at her hands, not exactly sure what Mary Margaret was suggesting. 

“Go on tour. It’s three months, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Darkly, Emma pointed out; “Killian Jones.”

“Forget Killian, think about _you_. In fact, if you want to be really ruthless, forget about the Jolly Rogers — Blackbeard’s Revenge are offering to cover your pay check. You think it’ll be hard for you to start doing this for a living if you do a good job for them?”

Emma mused on this thoughtfully — she wasn’t wrong. 

“Unless you _really_ want to keep pulling long shifts at Granny’s for the rest of your life.”

For a long moment she said nothing, weighing up her options internally; it seemed so straightforward when put that way, the little detail on the fact that she’d happily deliver a swift kick to a sensitive area on a specific British man seeming the more insignificant as she dwelt on it. The Jolly Rogers had asked for her, irrespective of her situation with their friend — Blackbeard’s Revenge had seen her work and were happy to take her. If Robin was to be believed she’d receive a sizable pay packet as well as an easy route to make a career out of all this, not to mention it would be some welcome time away from the memories that seemed to linger on every street corner in Storybrooke. Leaving had always been out of the question, but perhaps it didn’t have to be.

“I could go three months without serving coffee, I guess.” 

Mary Margaret simply grinned.

***

The following morning, when Emma buzzed for entry into the Storybrooke Dive for the third time that week she was met with an enthusiastic response from William Smee, who ushered her straight up to the studio to elicit her verdict. She was struck by how nervous a man he was and couldn’t help but wonder if his suggestion to the band that they bring along a photographer, with her name top of the recommended list, had anything to do with the fact that she just so happened to be a familiar face. Whatever it was, she wouldn’t dwell on it; she couldn’t look at their request as anything but a stroke of luck and an unmissable opportunity. 

When she told them as much, she was met with enthusiasm on all fronts. Except, perhaps, from the lead guitarist, who stood quietly plucking at the strings of an unplugged guitar and avoiding eye contact. Fine by her. The back of his leather jacket hearkened back to the last time she'd seen it, retreating down the stairs outside her apartment, so her gase didn't linger. Emma knew they had a lot of work to do to try and get the semblance of a record ready to produce on the tour so she didn’t stay long, promising to meet them at the bus stop Monday morning with all of her gear.

But given he’d made a habit out of running after her, she shouldn’t have been entirely surprised that when she'd started descending the stairs that Killian had called her name from the top. It was a little different this time, he wasn’t trying to get closer to her. If anything, he seemed like he was trying to maintain the ten or so steps between them as a distance. Emma didn’t like looking up at him anymore than she had the last time this had happened, it gave her a sensation of weakness she wasn’t quite comfortable with. 

“You reconsidered my offer, then,” he said, breaking the beat of silence that had followed his gaining her attention.

“Not your offer,” Emma corrected, “theirs. I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for me.” 

Killian nodded, gaze briefly dropping to his shoes. “I understand. You don’t owe me anything.” 

Emma was inclined to agree, but the deprecating nature of the comment had her holding her tongue, choosing instead to adjust the strap of her bag on her shoulder to try and make it seem like she wasn’t waiting awkwardly for him to let her go. 

“Listen, Swan,” he finally said with a growl of frustration, dropping down two steps, “I’m sorry that I lied to you. It was — it was bad form. Truthfully I’d hoped you might see the same humour in the situation that I did.”

She couldn’t quite work out just what _humour_ he was referring to; if anything, hearing about how tequila had knocked her out while an incredibly attractive man was just about ready to have his way with her was anything but funny. 

“Hilarious,” she deadpanned. “Can I go now?”

He ignored her. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next few months — do you think you could find it in yourself to forgive my gaff and at least have a go at being civil?”

Not three nights ago he was singing just to her in an empty warehouse, and now he was asking if they could be civil. Something in that realisation smoothed her edges, just a bit, but their last encounter kept intruding on her thoughts, his ardent declaration of how he cared for her replaying itself over and over in her mind. That said, Killian was right. They were both clear on the fact that she was going on this tour for herself, for the band she was growing quite fond of, but ignoring him wasn’t going to make the experience any more pleasant. At least he had somewhat offered an apology. 

“I guess we could try civil.”

She mounted a few of the steps between them, just so she could reach Killian at arm’s length and extended a hand for him to shake. 

“But it doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she warned.

Killian’s hand was warm in hers, firm. “Does it mean I’ll get my shirt back?”

Emma's cheeks warmed as she thought about the fact that she'd slept in it for the past two nights. What were the odds he wouldn't notice if she just handed it back?

“Be on your best behaviour between now and Monday morning and I’ll think about it.” 

For a moment he regarded her closely, the way his thumb brushed against the back of her hand sending tingles all the way to her spine and she was this close to allowing her to stare a little longer into the ocean of his eyes just to see if he could feel it too, but all too suddenly he’d dropped her hand and moved back. Perhaps he was also thinking about their last encounter.

 _I considered you. And now you’re out of the question_. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, love.” 

He left her, then, climbing up the stairs and slipping through the doors to the studio without sparing a glance back at her. 

Oddly, it left Emma feeling somewhat dissatisfied by the encounter, but she didn’t know what exactly she’d been expecting. Killian was clearly more interested in keeping his distance now — wasn’t that what she wanted? He’d still lied to her, taunted her even, just staying openly mad at him wouldn’t exactly make for a particularly friendly atmosphere in a tour bus. It was probably her wounded pride more than anything else, the idea that a few harsh words were enough for him to give him up his avid pursuit of her. The words he’d said the other night were just that, after all, words. And not ones she intended to reciprocate. So it really shouldn’t have bothered her at all that he’d apparently moved past it all in the space of barely two days.

And yet, irritably, it did.


	6. so-then-we-started-touring-together-and-nothing-was-weird-at-all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay, thank you SO much to everyone leaving comments and kudos, you guys are the best! I'm just coming off the end of my exams so I'm looking forward to finding time to write again. a couple of disclaimers: I'm not American, sorry if it shows! I also took some artistic license with Blackbeard's name and went with the actor's name. this is also a little filler-y, but Emma's introduction to the band needed some development - I promise there is loads more Emma/Killian to come! that said, I hope you guys enjoy! :D

The tour bus that rolled up for Blackbeard’s Revenge was magnificent, to say the least. It was all sleek, curved edges and spotless black paintwork, the logo for the band printed in a stark white across the door by the driver’s seat. The windows were blacked out so those stood at the bus stop couldn’t see inside, but Emma had been told it contained a portable recording studio, a mini-kitchenette, designated bays to keep all the back line equipment secure and luxurious, wide bunks were the band could sleep out their days at leisure, practicing and preparing for their gigs in the evening. 

The bus that arrived for the Jolly Rogers was decidedly _not_ as glamorous.

“I mean it, last day on Earth, ever — what do you do?” 

Robin’s question was opened into the cramped interior of the bus, the words permeating every bit of open space as there wasn’t much to be had. The bus consisted of six bunks at the back, three on either side, and a narrow aisle stretching between them, no extra storage space, the smallest kitchenette that included only a sink and a microwave, then the tiny black box down a few stairs on the left that contained their toilet before reaching the driver’s seat up at the front. There were two doors, the first being at the back by the bunks and the second by the driver, and nothing inside spoke of the luxury the Blackbeard’s Revenge bus boasted. The beds were too narrow, one of them had to be used for most of their equipment (mainly the instruments, as the larger amps and the like could luckily be crammed into the luggage bay) and Tina had already pointed out that if they hadn’t brought Emma along, their back line gear probably wouldn’t have to be resting on the floor right then. 

Suffice to say she already felt like something of an inconvenience, which was why she was sat on the top bunk furthest away from where everybody else was lounging on the bottom two beds nearest the door, facing each other across the aisle as they played some manner of card game on a suitcase acting as a table. She didn’t want to intrude any further so she began simply playing around with which lenses she expected to use over the course of the tour. 

“I would break into the Hall of Fame and put up our picture,” Tina was saying, grinning over her cards. 

“I’m being serious, Tink — last day on Earth. What the hell do you do?” 

“I _was_ being serious,” she insisted, “and what have I said about calling me _Tink?_ ”

“Nominations are rigged for inductees, anyway,” Killian added, “I wouldn’t want to be in there if they begged me.”

Tina snorted. “If they begged you you’d be panting to spend your last day on Earth in Cleveland.”

“ _I,_ ” Killian continued loudly, “would steal a ship from Boston Harbour and sail around the world.”

“Just a regular Captain Jack Sparrow, aren’t you?”

“You could probably get about as far as Cape Cod in a day, Killian.”

The sound of cards being flung across the space between the bunks could be heard, and Emma spared a glance to the aisle and watched them floating to the ground. 

“I don’t need your logic, Robin, it’s _my_ last day.”

Robin didn’t appear to respond, turning his attention to their other bandmate sitting on the bunk above him — August was the only one on the same level as Emma, and was currently reading a book and not exactly engaging in the conversation either. 

“What about you, August?” Robin put up to him, “what would you do with your last day on Earth?”

August thought for a moment, closing his book while using his finger to keep his place. “But why is it my last day on Earth?” 

Robin shrugged. “I don’t know — illness?” 

“Well then I’d want to spend it looking for somebody with a cure, wouldn’t I?”

“Not if it’s terminal.” 

“In church, then. Praying for a miracle.” 

Robin sighed heavily and August grinned, casting a glance in Emma’s direction — she couldn’t resist returning the smile, and she knew August must have caught her amusement. 

“You’re _ruining_ the game,” Robin pointed out.

August then clicked his tongue, pausing a few seconds and as if he were considering it seriously. “Then I guess I’d want to spend my last day on Earth with my father. Building something, probably. Remembering what it was like to be a boy.” 

“I’ve changed my answer,” came Killian’s voice from below, “I’d quite like to spend my last day with August’s father too.”

“And me,” Tina agreed. 

“So it’s settled, then?” Robin grinned, standing on the bottom bunk so he could reach across to August and pluck the book from his hands. “In the event of a nuclear apocalypse, we’re all spending our last day with Marco Wayne Booth.” 

“And that soothing Italian accent,” Emma could hear the smirk in Tina’s voice.

August rolled his eyes, leaning forward to snatch his book back from Robin. “You’re all ridiculous. And nuts if you think I’ll be wasting my last day with any of _you_.” 

His friend merely beamed, dropping out of sight again and returning to his position on the bunk below. Emma turned her attention back to her equipment, twisting the lens cap on her camera so she could peer through, taking a few experimental shots of the opposite wall. 

“And you, Emma?”

She looked up in surprise to note August hadn’t returned to his book, and was instead watching her with curious eyes. 

“Your last day on Earth, I mean. How would you spend it?” 

Not expecting to be invited into the conversation, Emma hesitated as she lowered the camera from her eyes and reached for the lens cap. “I dunno,” she ended up offering, “at home. With Mary Margaret, I guess.”

August blinked, as if surprised by her answer. Emma immediately felt a little defensive — wasn’t his response exactly the same? She opened her mouth ready to rebuke whatever comeback he was stewing over, but instead August crawled across to the edge of his bunk and reached across the narrow gap to hers, precariously balancing himself as he crossed over. 

“Feel free to join me,” she offered dryly as August settled heavily into place beside her. 

He appeared unperturbed. “What’re you doing?” 

“Nothing, really. Just messing around.”

He held out his hands and raised his eyebrows, as if asking _may I?_ , and Emma hesitantly surrendered the camera to him. She was incredibly protective over her equipment, but she knew over the next few months she and the Jolly Rogers would be working in incredibly close quarters so it seemed pretty pointless to attempt to hold something as commonplace as her camera back from them. August raised it up to his eye, peering through the viewfinder carefully. 

“Just a point and shoot kinda thing, right?” 

She could hear the colour of amusement in his voice and knew he wasn’t being serious, so she merely rolled her eyes good naturedly. “There’s a little more to it than that,” Emma remarked, before reaching to take it back. “Here — look. It’s point and shoot, but let’s say there’s a lot of effort that goes into the aiming to make sure the exposure’s all good. You see on this screen, this is where you can fiddle with your aperture, which is basically—”

To his credit, August appeared genuinely interested as she launched into an explanation of how she took her photos, asking intelligent questions and buttering her up enough to let him take a fair few of his own. Slowly, she relaxed — there was something infinitely reassuring about August’s presence, steady and calm and making her feel more at home on the bus than the past few hours had afforded her. It was only as she was guiding his hand around the lens so he could try bringing shots into focus that she suddenly had the distinct sensation of being watched. Emma cast her gaze up, immediately zeroing in on Killian, who had been filling a mug by the sink in the tiny kitchenette. Once their eyes locked he quickly looked away, a stiffness to his posture she hadn’t noted before. They’d agreed to be civil, but not speaking to each other at all had almost the same effect, and apparently that was the strategy Killian was deciding to go for. It was hard to believe this was the chatty, charming man who had cornered her at her place of work.

_I considered you. And now you're out of the question._

Feeling that familiar spike of heated indignation when she remembered the little white lie he had told her served only as a reminder of why she was absolutely fine with that development.

***

The arena for their first show wasn’t anything to be sneered at — it boasted some 5,000 standing capacity, and although it was far from the biggest venue they would be playing at over the next few months it was far larger than anything the Jolly Rogers had performed at before. There was something star struck in their eyes when Smee stepped onto the bus to inform them as such (Smee, in his role as their manager, had been afforded a coveted spot on the superior tour bus for Blackbeard’s Revenge) and the entire coach was charging with energy as they practiced sets and threw ideas back and forth about how they might approach the next few performances. 

Emma, for the most part, remained on her bunk. She cleaned her equipment within an inch of its life and spent the rest of the time either reading or snapping a few candids of the bandmates while they weren’t looking. On occasion she was joined by August, who had taken a vested interest in her photography, and even Robin and Tina proved themselves eager to get to know her better and often invited her into card games when they were enjoying some downtime. Killian’s absence was only notable in its isolation; they smiled and exchanged words occasionally, it was impossible not to in the cramped room available on the bus, but he scarcely sought her out for conversation. She might catch him staring in her direction once or twice, but usually once he was noticed he returned to whatever activity he had been carrying out before. Emma made a conscious effort not to be bothered by the whole thing. If he wanted to act like a child that was his prerogative.

When the bus arrived at the venue, all five of them clambered out into the steadily shrinking sunlight; they had a good two hours before their performance supporting Blackbeard’s Revenge was due to start, but they had most of their back line to set up and Smee didn’t want them wasting any time. Almost immediately the luggage bay was opened and they started picking up gear and ferrying it inside the personnel entrance. 

Unsure whether she should help or just stay out of their way, Emma hovered with her camera clutched in both hands as Killian, Robin and Tina disappeared inside. August stepped up beside her and nudged her with his shoulder, causing her to stumble a little before she shoved him back. August was quickly becoming one of her favourite people on the bus. 

“Call that helping?” he teased.

“ _I’m_ not a Jolly Roger,” she pointed out, gesturing to his own idling. 

His expression brightened with a smile and he stepped a few paces in front of her so he was standing between her and the arena. “Come on, impromptu shoot?” August posed with his hands on his hips and frowned into the distance. 

Lifting her camera to her eye, Emma obliged with a laugh. “Stunning.” 

He exhibited a few slightly more outlandish poses and Emma continued to offer her exaggerated compliments, forgetting they should probably be helping the others unload the bus — she figured they were somewhat let off the hook when she heard Tina’s laughter from the right of her, surmising the other Jolly Rogers had returned and were just as amused at August’s antics as she was. At least, most of them were. 

“If you two are done lollygagging,” came Killian’s irritated voice. 

August dropped whatever pose he’d been affecting, having the good grace to look a little sheepish. Emma, meanwhile, merely quirked an eyebrow. Tina and Robin didn’t appear to have a problem, even if Killian’s words had snapped them back into action — and it wasn’t like they didn’t have plenty of time before the gig started. And, really, _lollygagging?_ What was he, fifty?

“Alright, _gramps_ ,” she replied dryly, “we were just messing around.” Moving to follow him in the direction of the open luggage bay, she jumped on the opportunity to corner him into a conversation. “I’m guessing Blackbeard’s Revenge’s generosity doesn’t extend to a couple of good roadies too, huh?”

“We’d be lucky,” Killian grunted, bending to reach inside and hauling out an amp. “But no matter. That’s what we have _you_ for, Swan.”

Emma took the amp from him with a roll of her eyes. “I’m a photographer, not your errand boy. When do we meet the mysterious Blackbeards and their Revenge, anyway?”

At this he seemed at the same sort of loss as she, offering only a shrug in response before retrieving a line of cables and retreating as quickly as he could manage across the car park. She just couldn’t get a good read on him. 

“I wouldn’t worry about Killian,” Robin said, “he always gets a bit tense before a show.”

Emma kept her jaw set tight; if he wanted to be a prick he was welcome to. It wasn’t like he had to act any sort of way towards her, not after she’d made it abundantly clear of her position — and besides, _he_ was the one who had vied for civility. She’d already been propelled well out of her comfort zone by simply being on tour, she didn’t have the patience for dealing with Killian’s hot and cold attitude on top of it.

Apparently the others were a little bit more curious about the whole thing than she was. “What’s the deal with him?” Tina had asked the moment they were inside the building, following the directions given to them by members of the technical crew. Thankfully Emma had been spared from answering as when they emerged past the back curtain and onto the stage, they found Killian chatting to Smee and a few other men (what _was_ it with the wild gender imbalance, anyway?) in front of them. 

“Ah, here they are!” Smee hurried to greet them, taking Robin’s arm and pulling him over towards them.

It became apparent then that these four men were the missing members of Blackbeard’s Revenge who, with a couple hours spare before their set, had come to introduce themselves. From a first glance Emma got the distinct impression from them of a band that had _made it_. Unlike most of the hopefuls that passed through Storybrooke, Blackbeard’s Revenge exuded confidence, they were practically overflowing with it — coupled with their expensive shoes and easy smirks, she’d half expected them to open their mouths only for gold-studded teeth to become visible within. 

The frontman was Charles Blackbeard, from whom the band’s name had been extracted, and presumably much of the band’s image. He sported a thick, coarse beard of dark hair with a moustache to match, and hard, unforgiving eyes. The long red coat he wore was comparable only to the black one she had seen Killian try on once in the bus — an ornamental piece, something distinctly pirate looking. The Jolly Rogers fit in well with the aesthetic for their tour, Emma wasn’t at all surprised they’d chosen them at such short notice. 

Besides the eponymous Blackbeard stood their keyboardist, Isaac Heller; at a first glance he looked relatively harmless, all smiles and warm handshakes but there was something shrewd in the way he surveyed them that Emma didn’t like. Probably because it was an expression mirrored in her as they met for the first time, eyeing them all closely. Of far more note was the drummer standing beside them, notable for his youth in comparison to their slightly aged looks. Malcolm Pan, he introduced himself as, had come to the band recently, during their last spin through Storybrooke, in fact, as their prior drummer departed under the guise of creative differences (there wasn’t a favourable word to be said about Eric, that much became clear from the beginning). The nasty upward turn of Malcolm’s mouth was nothing compared to his reaction on recognising one of the guitarists from the Jolly Rogers.

“Been a while, Tina,” he said, with a smarmy edge to his voice that grated on Emma. 

And she wasn’t the only one with whom it had touched a nerve. “Not long enough, Pan.”

“You two know each other?” Charles looked first at Malcolm, then at Tina, with a calculating eye. 

“We’ve worked together before,” Tina muttered.

“A small side project,” Pan added, “nothing of consequence, really.” If the stiffening of Tina’s posture at the dismissal was anything to go on, there was bad blood there — something that didn’t exactly bode well for the next three months in intimate quarters.

The final member, the bassist who had initially recommended the Jolly Rogers after their gig in Warehouse 4, went by Jefferson — and just that, Jefferson. He had very little to say and mostly kept his eyes trained on his hands as the musicians went over the arrangements for the coming evening.

“We’ll just hope you can keep up, shall we?” Blackbeard offered with an indulgent laugh, something that seemed to disagree instantly with Killian. 

“If I recall, we’ll be setting the pace. Aren’t we first?”

“Oh, certainly. But after ten minutes with us they’ll barely remember your name.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Smee interjected with a nervous laugh, “we’re all friends here.”

“Not yet,” Charles continued, his eyes finally coming to rest on Emma, “but I do hope so.” In a flash he was by her side. “You must be the charming Miss Swan.”

Emma folded her arms, but had the sense to remember that this man was in charge of her paycheck. “Emma will do.” 

“Well, _Emma_ ,” she tried her best not to hate the way his lips curled around her name, “I am eagerly awaiting a preview of your work. If you ever require me for a private interview,” his eyes held a promise of something far more sinister, “you needn’t do more than ask.” 

“You’re mad if you think she would, _mate_.” Emma became aware of Killian’s hand digging into Charles’ upper arm, having not noticed when he’d crossed the few steps over to them. 

“Killian,” she hissed, smacking his hand away; she could damn well take care of herself, she didn’t need his faux attempts at protection, especially when he was being a bastard to her every other hour of the goddamn day. To Charles, she placated. “I’m just here to take photos, nothing else.”

Charles shrugged, barely even acknowledging her response. “A pity. C’mon gents,” he gestured for his bandmates to follow him, “better leave them to it.”

With a final few waves Blackbeard’s Revenge departed the stage, leaving the Jolly Rogers hesitant to continue. Emma was the one who broke the silence. 

“I don’t need you marking me as your territory, alright? You’re not scaring anyone off and you’re just making a prat out of yourself.” 

Killian blinked, surprised. “Love, I didn’t mean —”

“Just — I don’t care,” Emma interrupted, letting out a long breath, “why don’t you just tell me where to put this and let’s get this thing moving.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it, reaching for the amp she was holding up instead and taking it from her, turning on his heel and stalking towards the back of the stage. Emma tried to shrug off her irritation, appreciating that at least most of it was probably irrational; but she didn’t need anybody to take care of her, and it was better he accepted that _now_ before Blackbeard sent a few more lascivious remarks in her direction.

***

“’Evening, ladies and gents!” Killian’s voice, captured by the microphone and scattering through the large speakers on either side of the stage, echoed around the stadium almost filled to capacity. “I know you’re expecting Overload, but we poisoned them so we could tour with Blackbeard instead. We’re the Jolly Rogers, and if you’d be so obliging we’d love to play a few songs for you.” 

If there was a tremble to his voice, Emma was sure not many members of the audience would have picked up on it.

The gap between the edge of the stage and the barriers keeping the audience back was about two and a half metres wide, and this was where she’d decided to hide out for most of the gig — she figured she could get a bunch of decent action shots from underneath as well as potentially capturing some of the audience, but already she could feel the atmosphere of the huge room begin to stifle her. The turnout had been incredible — not a sold out show, but a good few thousand had arrived to see Blackbeard’s Revenge (or potentially Overload, the band that was supposed to be preceding them), and Emma had to admit she was impressed. Their fan base was something to be envied. 

That aside, she could feel the heat from thousands of tightly pressed bodies radiating from behind her, having her remove her sweater almost immediately and tie it around her waist. Tina and the boys were going to melt on stage, she was certain of it. Still, as they hesitantly began their set she listened with just as much interest as the crowd — she’d only heard a couple of their songs, and very few of the ones she did know had she heard with Robin’s drumming or August on the bass; or Tina singing the vocals, for that matter. 

Emma lifted the camera to snap a few of Tina first, her eyes slammed shut and her mouth pressed to the mic, before moving her attention to the rest of the band — Tina was their lead vocalist for the majority of the time, and although Emma wasn’t sure which angle Smee was shooting for she figured it was a safe bet to get the most photos of her to begin circulation. While she did this she tried valiantly not to think of each song as it was played to her by Killian, just he and her in an empty warehouse. Had it really only been just over a week ago? Fuck knew it felt like an eternity had passed since then. Even longer since she had felt him pressed up against her, carting her hands through his hair the night of David's concert; that much she could remember.

The Jolly Rogers played their way through their set and Emma could feel their enthusiasm growing with every positive reaction from the crowd, humming and gaining momentum as they reached their final song — Survivor. After a very brief introduction and a projection of gratitude to the eager audience, Tina surrendered her lead microphone over to Killian.

There was something about that song, Emma would swear by it.

(If the audience’s reactions were anything to go by, they would to). 

“What were these guys called again?” Emma heard the voices of those closest to her from behind the barriers.

“The Jolly Rogers,” another replied, “reckon they have any albums out?”

“There’s nothing on Spotify.” 

Emma cleared her throat. “They’re actually selling some tracks out front, you’ll probably see it on your way out. It’s their first EP.” She could’t help the steady drill of her heart; these people were actually _interested_ in their music; she was thrilled for them.

Grinning, a girl turned to her friends eagerly. “Go on, we may as well. They’re miles from BR but at least they’re better than shitty _Overload_.” 

A few of the people surrounding her hummed in agreement and Emma, realising there would be an interval of time between Blackbeard’s Revenge being set up and requiring her photography, she chose that moment to jump backstage, flashing her lanyard to the bouncer so she could get by. 

She found the Jolly Rogers talking animatedly over each other in one of the back rooms, clearly still buzzing. 

“I just don’t — I can’t believe we played a show that _big—!_ ” 

“And they fucking loved us Rob, didn’t you hear them?” 

“I swear to God I didn’t even care you fucked up the second chorus in Dead Men, I am so _hyped—_ ”

“Emma!” 

“ _Swan!_ ” 

While Robin and Tina unnecessarily hurried to get her a drink to join in their jubilation, August offered her a warm greeting but it was Killian who barrelled over to her and was lifting her in the air in his almost maniacal glee. 

“We bloody _smashed_ it, Swan!” 

She laughed, swept up in all of their enthusiasm even as the air was being crushed from her lungs. Killian stank of sweat and metal, his dark hair plastered to his forehead but as he set her back down on the ground she could see his expression was entirely unbroken by a grin stretching from one ear to the other. Their earlier spats completely forgotten, all she could do was share in their adrenaline as they came down from their euphoria. For a moment she even felt a little dizzy, likely from the sudden movement, but Killian’s arms around her steadied her, and unwittingly her fingers tightened on his upper arms — but maybe part of the vertigo was being this close to his bright, blue eyes for the first time in days and noticing the beads of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. Flashes of memory arrested her, his hands underneath her shirt and his mouth whispering her name and pressing his soul at the base of her throat.

For a moment he too seemed to notice their proximity and he too stilled, his smile unwavering. 

“You guys more than smashed it,” Emma offered quietly, “you damn well _obliterated_ it.”

“Reckon we have the drop on Blackbeard’s Revenge?”

She smirked. “You’re a tough act to follow, that’s for sure.”

Killian quirked an eyebrow, but before he could give voice to whatever suggestive remark he was certain to make Tina had stumbled in on their moment, literally, thrusting a beer into Emma’s hand and spinning her around while crooning a disjointed rendition of We Are the Champions. 

“Wait, wait — I still have to work!” Emma snorted, pulling the other woman to a stop so she could hand the drink back, “Save it for me, alright?”

After offering the remaining members of the band the appropriate (and highly deserved) congratulations and reassuring them of the audience’s favourable reactions, Emma made for the door that would take her back out near to the stage so she could set up before Charles and the others got started. The Jolly Rogers gave their own elated goodbyes, except for Killian. When Killian caught her eye from the doorway he did little more than raise his bottle towards her and wink.

Emma wouldn’t admit to the flutter in her stomach that came after, not if her life depended on it; especially when there were so many reasons not to.


	7. and-then-we-discovered-rum-was-the-solution-to-most-domestic-problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note I have bumped the rating to M, mainly because of language/themes and the like - better safe than sorry!  
> But yikes, this is a late! If it's any consolation, it's a stonker at nearly 7k words - thank you so much to everybody leaving comments and kudos or reblogging it on tumblr (you can find me at captainjayharkness(at)tumblr(dot)com), you guys mean the absolute world and make it a pleasure to share this little fic with you. You were promised lots of CS in this chapter, and here it is!

There were two truths that Emma had come to acknowledge as the tour progressed, both of which took a lot of self-encouragement for her to even admit privately in the early hours of the thirteenth day. The first was that Blackbeard’s Revenge were _good_. They played incredibly well, they were refined and collected in a way the Jolly Rogers could only aspire to be this early in their professional career, and after seven performances at various venues as the bus rumbled down the east coast, Emma had to admit it. There were rarely any notes out of place and they all possessed a mastery over their instruments — this was frustrating to her (and the others) because, while they demonstrated precision where their professional life was concerned, whenever they were offstage they were a pack of self-serving, arrogant morons who loved to poke fun at the smaller band. 

The second truth was that living on a tour bus was _hard_. And Emma was struggling.

With the only bit of space she could consider her own being the narrow, uncomfortable bunk in which she slept, Emma’s growing discomfort for the lack of walls made life difficult. The others were respectful, of course, always looking the other way when each other were changing, but there was nowhere to hide on the bus. No escape. There was nowhere to wash, only the sink in the kitchenette and the tiny cube of a toilet and the group had taken to stopping at truck stops every few days so the group could shower — once the smell became too cramped within the cabin, that was. The air was always hot and sticky, Emma imagined she could feel the breath of everyone else’s exhale on the back of her neck and she suffered through restless nights jolting around as the bus passed over potholes in the road with little fragility. Their driver, Merida, didn’t care much for comfort — she slept while they were stationary, so she didn’t have to worry about it.

As the Jolly Rogers were up most of the night performing and occasionally hitting up after parties where they felt they were invited (this was all still incredibly new to them), they spent most of the day asleep on their bunks. Whenever you moved around you had to keep absolutely silent in case somebody else was attempting to catch up on some rest, but Robin had developed an incredibly irritating habit of letting the doors slam shut every time he used one. August, too, liked to stay up late reading — and on more than one occasion Emma had thrown her pillow in his direction to get him to turn out the light above his bunk as it spilled over onto hers. She wanted to damn well _sleep_ at four in the morning. 

Then there was the _bickering_. 

Tina and Killian immediately began to clash, always falling into each other’s belongings or throwing biting remarks, getting irate at the smallest of things — Tina moving Killian’s guitar, Killian spending too long in the bathroom. It was rare that the two were ever awake and they weren’t squabbling, or worse, treating the entire bus to a seething silence as they made every effort to ignore the other. The Jolly Rogers had never experienced living in such close quarters before, and Emma found the atmosphere stifling. Her only true ally was August, he appeared to be suffering just as much as she was, but he bore his discomfort with a quiet resilience Emma was incapable of. She’d snapped at every one of them at least once, mostly at Killian. At everyone, she would protest, as losing so much sleep had drained her patience entirely dry. 

(But mostly at Killian. And he loved to provoke her.) 

_If you’re having trouble sleeping, feel free to bunk with me. ;)  
—K x._

With a hiss Emma had torn that sticky note off the wall and crumpled it up, promptly leaning over the edge of her bunk so she could throw it down at Killian — who had somehow manoeuvred his way into sleeping below her. Apparently their moment after their first gig had given him the impression it was okay to start flirting with her again, and he hadn’t held anything back. His stupid, goddamn post-its were finding their way into all of her stuff and on top of everything else it was really beginning to grate. Part of Emma was aware of the fact that he was probably only trying to cheer her up or bring a smile to her face, but the fact of the matter was she just couldn’t deal with the added stress of the odd bottle of emotions she currently felt directed towards Killian Jones.

So Blackbeard’s Revenge were actually good and Emma was struggling with life on tour — these were the truths she finally owned up to at three o’clock in the morning on her thirteenth day on the bus, and she hated it. 

Currently the bus was parked stationary somewhere, likely at a truck stop, which wasn’t entirely uncommon. Merida stuck to her own schedule as she had certain road laws she had to abide by regarding how long she drove without a break — she’d explained as much once when Tina had dared complain. Emma strained her ears, listening for any indication that anybody else was awake, and was met only with even breathing and soft snoring coming from Robin’s bunk. Even August’s light was switched off, his head buried under a pillow. 

In the darkness she suddenly felt so _stifled_ , like she were breathing only recycled air which pushed against her in uncomfortable, sticky waves and a sense of claustrophobia started to settle in. In moments she was sitting up and pushing her hair back from her eyes, but to no avail. She needed to be _really_ up, she needed to be outside. More than anything she needed some fresh air.

As quietly as she could she climbed down from her bunk, pausing again to check she hadn’t woken anybody up, before slipping on her boots, creeping towards the door at the back of the bus and easing it open — mercifully it didn’t creak, and she took greater care than Robin ever did in ensuring it didn’t slam shut again. The cool night outside was about as refreshing as she hoped it’d be, and she didn’t regret electing not to take a jacket as she felt her skin slowly start to cool down. She just needed a moment, that was all.

Emma took a few steps towards the services available; a few cheap food chains, a bar and a fuelling station (and some showers likely around the corner) and searched briefly for Merida. The Scottish woman was nowhere to be found and Emma privately suspected she might’ve gone to the bar no matter the road laws — she considered going there herself, if only to take the edge off and hopefully send herself back to sleep with greater ease. 

“Swan?”

Emma nearly jumped out of her skin at the familiar voice, turning to find Killian leant up against a trailer with his hands in his pockets, watching her curiously. 

“Jesus Killian, you scared the crap out of me,” she groused, feeling the weight of 3am and hours of lying in the bus slowly melt from her shoulders.

He grinned, pushing off the trailer to walk towards her. “Apologies, love. Am I right in assuming you too were looking for an opportunity to stretch your legs?”

Emma nodded, unable to entirely hide her relief. “Yeah. I think if I spent another minute in there I might’ve smothered Robin.” 

“The man does like to snore, I’ll admit.” 

“At least then there’d be one less person using up the oxygen.”

Killian laughed, and when his smile appeared so genuine and without a trace of a suggestive comment, Emma found it tricky to remember why exactly she was always so annoyed with him. He gave his smiles like he gave his trust — freely and without remorse, as easily as if he were breathing out affection. There had always been something appealing in that, in Emma who could scarcely let a grin slip sometimes without thinking heavily about the target. That was part of what had made him so magnetic to start with. 

A silence stretched between them then; Killian looked as if he might want to say something more but was clearly holding back, and for the first time Emma realised he must’ve been trying to navigate some sort of line, gauging how much was too much with her. He was trying to bring a sense of normalcy back to their complicated mess of an acquaintance (because, really, lovers, nuisances, one date, friends, not-actually-lovers, not-really-friends, irritancies, didn't summarise itself easily in few words) and she appreciated that. They still had a long leg left of this tour — it’d help if they could make it somewhere close to an actual friendship. 

“You know what I could do with?” she spoke up suddenly. Killian merely raised a questioning eyebrow and tilted his head, inviting her to continue. “A really, _really_ greasy burger.”

“It’s half three in the morning, love.” 

Emma was already five steps in the direction of the fast food stop, so simply threw the remark over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”

***

“That’s it. I know how you’re going to die, Swan, and that is it,” Killian said ten minutes later, giving her burger a dubious look as they sat down in the restaurant.

“Are you kidding? This is the highlight of my week.” 

“ _That_ is heart disease.”

“Alright, Mister Carrot-Sticks-And-Onion-Rings, just because one of us is getting a decent meal.” 

As if to emphasize a point, Killian chucked the brown paper bag across the table. “For your information, the onion rings are yours. You mentioned they were your favourite.” 

She was almost touched by the gesture, but in the early hours of the morning and under the bright, artificial light of the food joint it didn’t exactly feel real. Instead Emma took her first bite of her burger, barely holding back a groan as the taste exploded over her tongue. It’d been sandwiches and hurried microwave meals for days, and take out was _strictly_ off limits. 

“Personally I can’t stomach the aftertaste,” Killian said, and he was chewing on what Emma assumed was a carrot stick and watching her incredibly closely.

“That’s too bad,” Emma let out around a mouthful as she reached for her coke to wash it down. 

Killian rolled his eyes. “More for you, rather. But if you could avoid kissing me until it’s gone I’d appreciate it.” 

The casual air with which he said it had her raising an eyebrow around her straw, but for once she felt herself not getting incensed by the remark — she imagined what it’d be like if August had said it instead. A joke, merely. Not a come on. 

Still, she let out a derisive snort, balling up the napkin and throwing it in his direction. “I think I can manage that.” 

The restaurant was entirely empty save for a skeleton staff working behind the counter — Emma was grateful a twenty-four hour joint had even been open but figured nearly four in the morning was hardly their peak time. Although they ate in silence for a few minutes, she knew what she wanted this to be. Hopefully a chance for them to move forward and learn to just be themselves around each other without him constantly getting on her nerves or either of them overstepping boundaries. If they could just get somewhere normal, in such a way that meant they weren’t consistently missing each other, she’d be satisfied with that. 

“You’re really into this healthy eating kick, aren’t you?” She nodded at the meagre snacks he’d ordered from the counter. 

Killian shrugged, offering the faintest smile. “I suppose so. It’s my brother’s influence, primarily. He was always very insistent on my eating well as we were growing up.” 

Emma raised an amused eyebrow. “Carrot sticks and grapes at McDonald’s? I’d say he’s probably patting himself on the back right about now.” 

He was slow with his response, hesitant. “Probably.” 

“Do you see him much?”

Killian averted his eyes and she immediately knew something was up. “Unfortunately he, ah, passed away some years ago.” 

_Damn it_. She resisted the urge to squeeze her features into something remorseful — if she knew Killian well, and she was beginning to think she did, he probably wouldn’t appreciate her pity. “Ah, shit. I didn’t mean to…”

“Quite alright, Swan.” Killian brushed off her apology with a bright smile that barely touched his eyes. “We all have our crosses to bear.” Although spoken lightly, the observation was heavy and it resonated with her. Killian had his own baggage too. “Now what say we see about getting back on that bus?”

They finished their respective meals with a relative ease of back-and-forth, it seemed this early in the morning neither of them could muster the strength for a rallying defence — Emma was, in fact, surprised at how easy it _was_. The banter came quickly and without bite, and for at least a good twenty minutes she forgot why he was always so irritating to start with. There had been a point when they had gotten on incredibly well, after all. It was difficult to forget her private concert in Warehouse 4, how if circumstances were just a little different their relationship might have morphed into something entirely different from the jibes and the innuendo that currently made up their daily interactions. 

When they stepped outside, however, Emma immediately sensed something was wrong. Wary, usually one to trust her instincts, she looked carefully around the car park — and it was only under her close surveillance that she realised what was so dreadfully wrong with the picture in front of them. Killian came to the same conclusion a beat before. 

“Where the bloody hell is the bus?” 

Stunned, her hand instinctively moved to cover her mouth, dropped open in horror. “You _did_ tell Merida you were off the bus, didn’t you?” Since he’d been off before her she’d assumed he had let the driver know. 

“Didn’t _you?_ ” Killian shot back accusingly. 

“Oh god, oh _shit_.” Apparently no one had known the pair weren’t sleeping peacefully in the back with everyone else. 

“Christ,” Killian agreed, reaching for his phone with the same speed she was. Emma immediately pulled up August’s number and hit dial, bringing the handset to her ear. She watched Killian do the same, likely with Robin or Tink, and heard him echo the same noises of frustration when they both went to voicemail. 

“Why the _fuck_ is no one picking up?!” Emma growled, stabbing the end call button rather sharply with her phone, after the third time she heard the amiable tone of August’s voice announcing he couldn’t come to the phone right now. 

“They’re probably out of service range,” Killian pointed out, but Emma didn’t need his being reasonable right now.

“Keep ringing Robin,” she said instead, “he’s always up at every hour of the goddamn night making noise.”

Killian gestured to his phone irritably, a reminder he already was. 

Stood by themselves in the empty parking lot, Emma felt like screaming. When was her damn luck going to _change?_ Didn’t she deserve it by now? Hadn’t she earnt it? Instead she was stranded at a truck stop with only a few blinking neon signs and a streetlamp for illumination, and the man she could barely handle on a good day, let alone when she was exhausted and at the end of her rope. 

“Now what?” she huffed out needlessly, moving her boot to kick a stray can a few paces away. 

Killian watched as it clattered across the ground. “A drink, perhaps?” He gestured to the bar Emma had spotted earlier, when she had suspected Merida might be sitting inside.

Emma let out a noise of frustration. “Is rum your solution to everything?”

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

“At four in the morning?”

Killian sighed heavily. “Alright, Swan. What do you suggest?”

Emma surveyed the parking lot, unconsciously hitting August’s name on her phone once again, waiting for it to hit his voicemail before she answered. 

“A _drink_ ,” she said instead, pointing a thumb at the convenience store a few yards away. Before Killian could protest, she carried on. “Bar’s closed, Jones. Last orders would’ve been hours ago.” 

Evidently realising where she was going with this, the corner of Killian’s mouth curved upwards in a smirk. “And God bless the twenty-four hour supermarket?”

“Something like that.”

***

There was something surreal about it, Emma decided, sitting with Killian Jones on a pair of upturned crates and passing a bottle of Captain Morgan’s back and forth between them while he made up bullshit stories about the origins of the shape of the stars. Yet there they were. Killian had offered her his jacket already and she had refused, preferring to use the rum to try and soothe the chill from between her shoulders — he knew better than to offer twice.

“If someone had told me,” she started slowly, looking up at the constellation he had just told her was called Canis Major because of something she did not take pleasure in repeating, “that _this_ was what my life was going to be, drinking rum in the middle of Bum Fuck, New Hampshire at going on five in the morning, I dunno — I’d have laughed.”

Killian handed her the bottle then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Although you _are_ , currently, stranded in the middle of Bum Fuck, New Hampshire, I hardly think you can count this moment as what your life ‘is’, love.”

“Life is _made_ of moments,” she found herself rattling off one of David’s favourite platitudes. “Or,” she raised the bottle to her lips, letting the liquid burn down her throat, “something.”

“‘Or something’,” Killian snorted, “artfully expressed.” 

Emma shoved him in the shoulder and he fell sideways, recovering quickly before taking the bottle she proffered. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, it it’s any consolation, I don’t think _anyone_ really considers moments like this when they muse on their future. I know I didn’t.” 

Emma arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t you? Isn’t this sorta rock-‘n-roll?” 

Killian burst into laughter, and she resisted the urge to shove him again, recognising the drink had probably loosened her filter for sillier remarks somewhat — even she could see that was a bit daft. 

“Please say that again.”

“Killian.”

“The rock-‘n-roll crate-cotching rendezvous.”

“ _Killian._ ” 

“Rock-‘n-roll ditched-by-the-tour-bus rum party.”

“Have you rung Robin recently?”

Killian made taking his phone from his jacket pocket into a flourishing movement, before scrolling through and finding the contact and pressing _call_ again. Emma peeked over into his call history and could see the twelve missed calls already sitting in there — it appeared even Robin wasn’t awake to witness their mistake, and every minute none of the Jolly Rogers picked up was another minute further away the bus was. After a beat of silence he dropped the phone again, rubbing his eye with his free hand tiredly; evidently that would be the thirteenth.

“No,” he sighed, taking another gulp from the bottle before passing it back to Emma, “this was _not_ how I imagined my life either.” 

In handing her the bottle the sleeve of his jacket rode up, revealing the tattoo she had noticed for the first time that night he had come to Granny’s; the dagger through the heart emblazoned with the name _Milah_. Emotional baggage, that was Killian what had said in his dismissal of her questions. Emma’s curiosity remained, and she wondered if the alcohol and messed with any of his filters too. Whatever it was, the question had tumbled from her lips before she could restrain it. 

“Who’s Milah?”

Killian’s expression turned sombre, and before Emma could take the bottle from him he had already pulled it back. He shook his head. “Someone from long ago.”

“You know that’s not going to cut it, right?”

Abruptly, the man then stood, and if he swayed momentarily Emma wouldn’t comment on it. “You know it’s also none of your business, don’t you Swan?” 

“Hey,” she held up her hands in a placating gesture before reaching for the rum, “you know about Neal. I’m just saying, fair is fair.” 

Killian’s brow furrowed. “The jewellery thief?”

“The love of my life, currently,” Emma snorted, snatching the bottle away when he wouldn’t surrender it. “How sad is that?”

“Not sad at all,” he continued quietly, “he used you. We all get used at one time or another.”

“Did Milah use you?”

The shake of Killian’s head was emphatic, the crease on his forehead indicative of his mind probably drifting to some far-off memories. Emma almost felt bad to press him, but she couldn’t imagine any other scenario in which she might satiate her curiosity as she did not intend on getting drunk with him to become a regular occurrence. Especially given the last time it had happened she had apparently fallen asleep on him in the middle of _activities_.

“C’mon, Killian,” Emma tugged on his arm until he relented, falling heavily back onto the crate beside her. “Drink more. Reveal your secrets. We’ve got fuck all else to do until someone picks up the phone.” 

Killian didn’t say anything, merely took the bottle from her mutely and lifted it to his lips, taking a few large swallows to her surprise. Then, given his fondness for the stuff he’d probably built up something of a tolerance. That, or he decided he needed to be far drunker in order to have that conversation.

“She was my first love,” he finally admitted, ringed fingers playing with the neck of the bottle. “My muse. We met when I was nineteen, she twenty-four. She was wonderful. Spirited, beautiful — she didn’t take anyone’s bullshit, y’know?”

“Sounds like you have a type,” Emma muttered.

“Calling yourself beautiful, Swan? S’a bit vain, is it not?”

“I’m calling myself a non-bullshit-taker.” She paused, realising what she’d implied. “I — _hey_. Who said I was even talking about me?”

Killian merely smirked, taking another gulp from the bottle before Emma reached for it, deciding he’d had quite enough for the moment. 

“She didn’t take anyone’s bullshit,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “except her husband’s.” Emma’s mouth curved into an ‘o’, and Killian snorted with a dry agreement. “Yes, quite. He was a mean old bastard if there ever was one. And he was — old, I mean. Milah was only a few years older than his son of another marriage. She would never tell me why she married him, only that he had been good once. I didn’t believe her.” 

Emma smiled faintly. “What happened?” 

“She was going to leave him. For me, that is. When she finally told him he apparently didn’t take the news very well, but she got out of there. Was on her way to see me.” Killian’s eyes shut, and Emma could feel the pain emanating from him. He didn’t have to continue for her to realise his Milah was evidently dead. “She shouldn’t have rung me while she was driving, I should have told her to hang up. We were just — gods, we were so excited.”

He took a heavy breath, as if steeling himself to continue. Suddenly, Emma didn’t want him to. She didn’t want him to utter another word that would obviously cause him such great anguish, and in her attempt at doing so she took the words right out of his mouth. 

“She was in a car accident.”

Killian’s voice was hollow as he concluded. “I heard the whole thing. On the other end of the line.” 

They were silent for a long moment, simply passing the bottle back and forth — honestly, she had no idea what she could say to him. 

“I’m sorry, Killian.” 

Here was a man who had seen so much tragedy in his life. In Emma’s view, at least she had never _had_ what Killian had lost. She didn’t have siblings, she had never lost a loved one to death, and she couldn’t miss something that had never been hers. She tried to imagine what it might be like for her if Mary Margaret had been in an accident of somesort, but the mere notion shook her with enough force for her to feel the pinprick of something wet at her eyes so she immediately directed her thoughts elsewhere. This wasn’t her pain being aired for all to see.

“I wasn’t even allowed to attend the funeral. Her husband threatened me, and I didn’t —” Killian rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if trying to remove the memory from his mind. “I was just a kid, Swan. I wasn’t brave enough then.” 

“And now?” 

He turned to meet her eyes, and she saw they were red-rimmed from where he had rubbed them, or perhaps from something else entirely. Killian met her question with an unsteady stare. 

“Are you brave now?”

Killian took the bottle back from her, but didn’t have a drink. He stared out into the dark of the parking lot, the softest of pinks beginning to creep over the horizon as the dawn began to rise with them. Neither of them spoke for a while, just let the sky turn from black to a deep blue, preparing for the day to start as cars began to rumble past along the highway. Part of Emma felt compelled to say something, but she had no idea what to say. It was only when she shut her eyes for a moment that she realised between them they had almost demolished the entire bottle, and the world was beginning to sway behind her eyelids. 

In an attempt to clear it she stood, stumbling on unsteady feet as Killian’s bleary, blue eyes watched her, glazed and unfocused. 

“Killian,” Emma started, covering her mouth with her hand. 

He cleared his throat. “Hm?” 

“I am _really_ kinda losing it here.”

His expression smoothed out into a lazy smile. “Are you _drunk_ , Swan?” 

“ _No_ ,” she hurried to correct him, “a little.” 

“Right,” Killian declared, also leaping to his feet, letting the discarded bottle tip onto its side and begin to roll away. “If the bus won’t come back to us, then we’ll just have to bus to the drive.” 

“Huh?”

“Our _ride_ , love. Here!” Killian began to jog a few paces away where an empty shopping cart had been discarded next to a trailer, and he took it by the handlebars and began to steer it back to her. “Now _this_ is rock-‘n-roll.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Your steed, milady.” 

Whether it was the booze or the idea that she was actually somewhat warming to Killian, Emma realised her usual line of defensive protests had escaped her entirely. Instead she found herself making a noise that could only be described as the verbal depiction of a shrug, turning and dropping into the cart so her legs hung over the front and her head rested near where Killian started pushing from. 

“Time to get out of Bum Fuck, New Hampshire!”

“And which direction isn’t Bum Fuck, New Hampshire, Swan?”

Emma considered this. “Y’know, I really don’t think Bum Fuck is a place so much as a _feeling_. Like, when we’re somewhere I’ll _feel_ like we’re somewhere and then we’ll know we’re not in Bum Fuck anymore.”

“I don’t think I follow.” 

“You’re so _slow_ , Killian,” Emma sighed heavily, adjusting her position to try and make herself more comfortable. 

“ _Slow?_ ” Killian sounded offended by the mere notion. “You want _fast_ then, d’you love?” He began speeding up, jogging behind the trolley before setting it off to a good speed, placing his feet on the bar connecting the back wheels so he, too, could be carried across the car park. Emma rattled her hand on the side of the metal in approval, laughter pulling itself easily from her chest. 

That exhilaration lasted a blurry ten minutes or so, before she realised Killian had only been spinning them round the parking lot in circles and not _actually_ trying to actively get them out of Bum Fuck. Offended, she had demanded he stop so she could clamber out, wobbling on her feet slightly until he steadied her. It took only a few more seconds for them to topple onto the ground, backs resting against a storage container and trying to regain their breath.

“Y’know, Emma,” Killian started, letting his head drop back into the container with a muffled thud. “I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “ _Now?_ ” she snorted. “When I’m drunk and red-faced and sleepless and gross?”

“Reminds me of when we met.”

That remark earnt him a swift thwack to the stomach.

“I _meant_ ,” he wheezed once he’d recovered, “we were drunk and you were beautiful and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Emma turned her head to face him, resting it against the storage container. “Are you saying you’re only attracted to me when you’re drunk, Jones?” Although spoken as an admonishment, a smile began to tug at the corner of her mouth. 

“I’m saying when I’m drunk I find it a lot harder to hold myself back,” he said, gaze dropping brazenly to her lips before flickering back up to her eyes.

“That’s a shame,” Emma mused, very aware of the shortening distance. 

Killian’s response included only a smirk and a muttered, “ _isn’t it?_ ” 

There was a moment, the space of a single breath, where he hesitated — that was the moment she knew she could've moved away and he would've let her, but she didn’t. Her tongue merely darted out to wet her lips in anticipation; and then he was there. 

There was nothing urgent about the action, a languid leaning into each other that stopped just short of them accidentally knocking their foreheads together, open mouthed and tasting entirely of spiced rum. Killian caught her bottom lip between his teeth, pressing them down until she hissed and tugged herself free, one of her hands drifting to the nape of his neck to pull him closer. Killian’s hand, too, found its way to the side of her face as he tilted his head for a better angle, his tongue dipping its way into her mouth. 

If she was frank she would admit it was clumsy, muddled, a coming together made sloppy by their distant states of mind, but there was something to be said for the burst of heat it erupted in the pit of her stomach. It was familiar, too, she couldn’t forget that. Within her own mind she could already hear the sound he would make should she move her hand higher and tug at the strands of his dark hair towards the back of his head, was already planning the movement, contemplating sitting up straighter and letting her other hand do some exploration of its own, when suddenly the blaring of something loud and obtrusive startled them into jumping apart. 

Confused for a moment, Killian’s hand was still tangled in her hair before he realised the jangling noise was coming from his pocket — it was his cell, bleeping unrelentingly until he chose to answer it. Emma pulled back from him then, the blonde strands of her hair slipping out of his hold and she cleared her throat. Her fingers found their way to her mouth, still tingling from where she had tasted him, as Killian fumbled to get to his phone before it rang out. 

“You have the _worst_ timing in the world,” he growled immediately into the handset. Despite herself, Emma let out a laugh. “Yes I know, I called you so many — use your eyes, mate, I’m not _on_ the bloody bus. No, I’m not _drunk_ , thanks, I am just — I am peaceably ignoring the consequences of my actions. Just hurry the sod up, yeah? We’ve lost enough time as it is.” 

After a few moments more Killian pulled the phone back, letting it drop down into his lap as the call ended and he fell back against the container once more. Emma found herself hyper-aware of the way her shoulder was pressed up against his, couldn’t stop thinking about the gentle tug of his lips — they’d drunk a lot, she reminded herself. It was entirely justifiable. She had a fair amount of alcohol in her system and Kilian Jones was _hot_ , and the latter certainly wasn’t a fact she had ever privately denied. That didn’t mean a repeat performance would be encouraged, but they didn’t gave to be awkward about it either. A momentary lapse. That was all.

“I don’t suppose,” Killian began, “the chances of us continuing where we…” 

Emma was already shaking her head, offering him a knowing smile. “Not even the ghost of one.” She then patted his knee abruptly, using him as leverage so she could propel herself to her feet. “C’mon, Jones. Time to sober up.” 

“I can think of much more favourable ways to spend our time, really.”

“I’m sure you can,” she arched an eyebrow, “but I’m afraid that was a one-time thing.” Killian groaned, and Emma would be lying if she said part of her didn’t revel in it. His wanting her so obviously was shamelessly enjoyable. “Enjoy the memory, Killian. It’s all you’re getting.” 

When he opened his eyes she could spot the onset of something that looked like _determination_ , and she couldn’t work out just how hard she wanted him to try. 

***

Emma didn’t remember much after that. She had a feeling she had dozed off atop the crate with Killian, but there were only flashes that pervaded her addled mind — a few raised voices, August’s aftershave, leaning heavily into a leather jacket as she was half-walked, half-carried across tendrils of sunlight across dirty concrete, and the soft fall of being lowered into a bed. 

When she awoke, her head was pounding. When the familiar interior of the Jolly Rogers’ tour bus swam into focus she immediately suspected what had jostled her awake was the slamming of a door, feeling a spike of automatic resentment for Robin when she realised.

The irritation subsided when she realised she actually had no idea how she’d ended up on the bus.

“I can’t _believe_ these two,” came a harsh whisper then, the accent of which led her to identifying Robin. The bus was still dark, but with blinds that counteracted the daylight it served as no indication for the time of day. “They manage to get themselves stranded in the middle of nowhere and they think getting hammered is the best way to cope?”

“Should’ve left them.”

“With thirteen missed calls from Killian?”

“Could’ve said it was a mutiny against you, Rob.” The second voice Emma identified as Tina. 

“Look, can you take that outside? You'll just wake them up.” Following this, she felt a surge of affection for August. 

“Let them be woken, then,” Tina’s voice climbed a few notches in volume, “it was reckless and _stupid_ and now we just have to hope Killian will be on form for tonight.” 

“He’ll be fine. It was a mistake, and it could’ve happened to any of us.” 

Robin sighed. “The _rum_ wouldn’t, you know that.” 

There was some rustling, the sound of feet being pushed towards the back of the bus before the door opened, bright light immediately seeping through and Emma shut her eyes tight, attempting to give off the impression of sleep. Soon enough the door slammed shut, and the bus fell into silence. It was then Emma begin to feel something akin to shame wash over her, pushing her further into the mattress. The rum hadn’t been a good idea — they hadn’t handled that situation entirely like adults, and she had to admit it had been irresponsible, what with the Jolly Rogers show later on that evening.

That said, Emma wasn’t really one to roil in self-pity for too long, especially with her need for sleep as prevalent as it was at the forefront of her mind; if _she_ wanted to be on good form for tonight, then she needed to get a few more hours in. 

“Swan?”

Killian’s hoarse whisper permeated the darkness and Emma held her breath, thoughts jumping immediately to a sloppy kiss, the taste of rum and the scratch of his scruff on her cheek. She made no reply — she didn’t feel ready to confront that particular mistake yet. A one-time lapse, that was all. At her lack of response Killian must have assumed she was out cold, rustling to shift his position on the bunk underneath her.

It only took a few minutes, Emma didn’t linger, and soon she drifted off into an uneasy sleep. 

***

“I heard you and Jones got ditched at a trucker stop in the wee hours of this morning.” 

Emma looked up to find Malcolm Pan staring down at her, the corner of his mouth pulled up in his unmistakable smirk. She merely rolled her eyes, adjusting the cables on the amp in the way August had instructed her to. 

“And?”

Malcolm shrugged, straightening up. “Just thought it was funny, that’s all.” 

“It _is_ funny,” Emma remarked dryly, “we got stranded because we stopped for a burger, it’s hilarious. What’s your point?” 

The boy (it felt odd, given the youth that lingered around the edge of his eyes, to refer to Malcolm as a man) appeared a little put off by her agreeing with him, and Emma surmised he had been looking to put her on the spot. Most of the members of Blackbeard’s Revenge had started making a point of doing so, and she found if she merely took most of her actions in her stride then they had very little they could hold over her head. Besides, with the gift of hindsight she could see why from an outsider’s perspective, the whole ordeal would be amusing — for those who hadn’t witnessed Killian’s heart laid so bare on his sleeve, or watched the dawn break to the ghost of his breath on her cheek. When Emma thought about those things she didn’t find it so funny. 

Once she finished what she was doing she looked up again, noticing that Malcolm had wandered off. Picking up her camera from where she’d left it, Emma then headed towards the back of the stage to where Charles had instructed her to meet the second photographer — apparently for the remainder of their shows in New England they’d be joined by another freelancer, somebody they had contracted until Emma came into the picture. She didn’t particularly mind, if anything it let up a little of the pressure on her to get something worth showing off from every single gig so she felt like she was earning her wage. 

As she jumped down the stairs heading into the hallway Emma nearly walked right into Killian, whose arms were laden with two amps and a long jack, which was coiled around his neck and both wrists. 

Amused by the arrangement, Emma reached up a hand and flicked the corner of his nose. Killian ducked his head back in surprise, before making a show of biting the air where her finger had just been and breaking into a grin. They hadn’t said much to each other since that morning, but there was something softer that brokered the space between them now. A ceasefire, perhaps. After a moment’s manoeuvring Killian squeezed past her in the narrow hallway and began climbing the stairs, and Emma aimed for the second door on the right where she was to meet her new co-worker. 

Once she stepped inside and was nearly winded by recognition when her eyes landed on the other photographer, Emma had to wonder for not the second time in twenty-four hours — when was her goddamn luck going to _change?_

If it was any consolation, Neal Cassidy looked just about as blindsided as she felt. 

“You have _got_ to be kidding.”


	8. the-only-good-thing-about-today-was-the-shower-(apart-from-that-other-thing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And chapter 8! and only a week layover! :D woo! I've been making good progress with this fic, I hesitate to say the next chapter will be out as soon but I'm not working at the minute so I have a lot of time on my hands. also had a brief marvelling period about the fact that this was supposed to be a oneshot and is now 35k+ words and counting - that's all thanks to you guys! thank you so much for your unending support, it makes my heart so full of love for all of you letting me know you're enjoying this. there's a little swanfire at the start (forgive me) and some dialogue I reworked from the show, but I hope it works. I'd love to hear all your thoughts on this one!

She was in Mary Margaret’s apartment, she was warm. There was a contentment fringing at the edges of her drowsy mind unlike anything she had felt before, planting delicate touches that ghosted up her spine. She shifted, but not out of discomfort, and felt the scrape of an attempt at a beard tickling her bare shoulder before it moved to be replaced by the press of his lips. Entirely unable to stop the smile that pulled at her features, she kept her eyes shut and pretended to still be asleep, hoping he might continue his ministrations. He did, for a few moments, but perhaps he noticed the change in her breathing; they were usually in tune that way. She could hear his own grin in his voice as his arm tightened around her waist. 

“You’re awake, Emma.” 

This was Tallahassee. And she was happy here.

She was caught at the very front of the throng, face flushed and voice hoarse as she clutched onto her camera for dear life. The heat radiating from the lights and the crowd that surged behind her meant she was sure her hair was matting and clinging to the back of her neck, the way her clothes were sure to stick to her — she lifted the camera so her eye found the viewfinder, finger lingering on the shutter only once or twice, attempting to catch the spirit of the music that poured out from the stage. She would have been frightened, standing near the front of Warehouses as fans crushed those closest into the barriers was not an experience she had ever wanted to put herself through, but for his hand at her hip and his voice in her ear. 

“Keep it steady!” he was yelling to be heard, using his other hand to try and still the movement of her right arm. She couldn’t help it, she was trembling, but it wasn’t out of fear — it was exhilaration. She had never quite known a feeling like this, a euphoria greater than anything she had felt since coming to Storybrooke. She couldn’t even remember the name of the band. Frankly, she didn’t care. 

It was that thought that had her lowering her camera, turning in the relative darkness so she could look up at him and sling her arms around his neck, drawing him in for a dizzying kiss. He had always been unable to resist her in that regard, and she needed some way to channel the energy coursing through her and the surge of gratitude she felt for this man, for showing her this, for _giving_ her this.

This must be Tallahassee, she had thought. This was where to find it.

She was sitting in her old yellow bug, a blanket of night surrounding them but she found herself drawn to the way his eyes always seemed to glimmer, no matter how little light there was to be seen. Her wrist was alight with his touch, as he slipped the strap of the watch around it, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. A smile she mirrored, when he leant forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her skin, just above her pulse and beside where her new trinket lay. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” she murmured, but her face felt like it might split from how widely she was grinning. 

“How could I not?” he replied easily. “Look how good it looks on you.”

She leant forward, so their foreheads were pressed together. 

“Soon. Tallahassee, baby,” he said, pulling a strand of her blonde hair from behind her ear, and raising it to his lips. 

She sighed, nodded her head in the barest movement, agreeing. 

“Tallahassee.”

***

She was in none of these places, not anymore. She was standing in a tiny conference room at the back of a stadium in New Hampshire, and Tallahassee was nothing but a distant memory — save for the identity of the man now standing in front of her, looking equally as surprised as she was. Neal Cassidy didn’t look like he’d aged a day, but then it had only been just over a year and a bit since she’d seen him last. Fourteen months, in fact. And seventeen days. Twenty-two of which she’d spent locked up in county until Sheriff Humbert could prove she hadn’t stolen thirteen Cartier watches, one of which had been on her wrist when the police department had first coming knocking at her door.

“You have _got_ to be kidding,” was all she managed, certain the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to pit her up against this man again, not so soon after she started officially making a great effort to master her own happiness in the wake of him, taking a chance on something terrifying that she hoped to finally separate _from_ him. Neal had given her the first camera she had ever used, but she wanted all this to be just hers now. Without him. And yet, here he was. “ _Neal?_ ”

For his part, the man in front of her managed to shut his own mouth, black coat ( _smart_ black coat, she couldn’t help but observe) resting heavily around his shoulders. It seemed almost despite himself, a smile lit up his features once he’d fully processed the shock — Emma hated the way it still caused her stomach to flip traitorously. She’d thought for so long of what she’d say if she ever saw him again, and yet now her throat was hollow of sound. 

“Emma?” he breathed, chestnut eyes glinting. “I don’t understand, what’re you doing here?” 

The question felt so completely far away from anything she had been expecting him to say that her reaction was instinctive. 

“What am _I_ doing here?” she gaped. 

“Yeah,” he said, watching her curiously. Neal looked uncertain, as if afraid of what she might say, but there was something light in his movements — something _pleased_. He screwed her over then had the damn nerve to be pleased to see her?

“I’m not,” she started, urging her brain to move faster to catch up with the speed expected of her mouth, “answering _anything_ until you tell me the truth.” Neal swallowed, but made no reply. “Did you set me up?”

A frown flickered across his features. “Set you up?”

“You played me,” she could feel a year’s worth of hurt begin to wade into her voice, “you gave me that watch and then you rang the cops and tipped them off. You _set me up_.”

“Whoa, Emma, hold on a second —”

“And now you’re — you’re just _here_ going to gigs and working in photography like none of it fucking _happened?_ There’s a warrant for your arrest in Maine, you asshole!”

Neal let out a short breath. “Why do you think I didn’t go back for you?”

Emma was stunned. “Back for — _back for me?_ What the fuck is _wrong_ with you, Neal?!”

“The hell is wrong with _you?_ ” Neal, for his part, also seemed completely surprised by the turn of conversation. “I know I didn’t say anything but I couldn’t risk getting in touch until everything calmed down, then it had been so long I figured you were better off —”

“I went to _jail_ for you.”

This was almost too much for Emma, who usually took pride in her ability to compartmentalize and to shut away emotions only ever to be examined at a clinical distance, but seeing Neal again so unexpectedly had knocked the lid off of every box of every repressed emotion she had kept down for so long. She knew her voice was cracking, knew her expression had to be far from the mask of indifference she usually tried to project, but she couldn’t help it — she had never been, and she could never be, merely indifferent to this man. At her declaration Neal was silenced, his brow creasing, but before he could even give voice to whatever query was dulling his usually bright eyes she carried on.

“I went to jail for those watches you stole.” 

Neal visibly swallowed, letting out a breath of bemusement with an almost helpless shrug of his shoulders. “Wai— _What?_ ” That he had the gall to act like he had no idea what she was talking about was even more infuriating — in fact it was worse than that, it was downright insulting. This man who had meant so much to her standing in front of her acting like he wasn’t the reason her entire life had flipped upside down. 

Most of Storybrooke hadn’t really believed her when she was finally let off the hook; that wild girl from Boston who had moved in with Mary Margaret was fresh out of the system, after all, and had spent time in juvie. What wasn’t there to believe about her stealing thirteen Cartier watches worth around $20,000, especially when she’d had the arrogance to parade around wearing one of them? The fact that she’d managed to wrangle the blame somewhat onto that boyfriend of hers who had left town was very fortunate (and convenient, if they said so themselves), but a lot of the residents felt they knew better. Part of Emma would always be a villain in their eyes, she could always feel it in the pinprick of their stare at her back. She’d shrunk away from working for the Mirror, from going out in public other than to gigs under the cover of darkness, of anonymity, and started finding her gratification through the lost souls who passed through Storybrooke, the Killian Joneses of the world, the musicians who wouldn’t be in town long enough to remember her name. It was safer for her that way.

The charges had never been dropped against her, not really.

Emma took a shuddering breath, swiping angrily at her eyes. “Twenty-two days in county. I can’t fucking believe you.”

“Emma,” Neal said softly, and the intimacy of the way his tongue rolled around it was too much, and she suddenly couldn’t watch him anymore and turned to face the wall, mouth covered by her hand with mortification that she couldn’t stop emotion from shaking her shoulders. “Emma, I didn’t know —”

“Oh, fucking _right _,” Emma scoffed, voice rising, “you are _such_ a piece of shit—”__

“Would you _stop_ yelling at me?” Neal’s irritation climbed in volume to match hers, but Emma refused to take it as she whirled back to face him.

“Hey, I am the only one allowed to be _angry_ here!” she barked, and in the beat of silence that followed she was suddenly filling it with every question that had plagued her those lonely twenty-two days, pacing the walls of her cell in the Sheriff station and resisting the urge to cry. “Were you planning it from the start? Giving me that camera with money you raided from cash registers — was it all part of some sick, twisted plan? Planting me with evidence the whole time we were together?” Emma was aware she was breathing heavily now, but she couldn’t stop her tirade. “Did you even care about me at _all?_ ”

Neal flinched, something she could only identify as hurt crossing his features then. “Emma…”

He needed to stop saying her name, she couldn’t handle much more of it. 

__“I want the truth,” she snapped, “all of it.”_ _

Neal let out a noise of frustration, throwing out his hands wildly. “I stole the watches, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I was dirt poor, but you already knew that. My father cut me off and left me to fend myself but you _knew_ that, Emma! You _knew_ I stole things, bits of food here and there, it’s how I _survived_. Stop standing there preaching to me and acting like you didn’t _know_ me!”

He was right, she _did_ know. She’d watched him slip things into his pockets a hundred times, knew his meagre wage from the paper hadn’t been enough to cover his living expenses — she knew all about his relationship with his father, how Gold had cut him off after the death of his new wife. The worst of it was Neal’s association with Gold made him very unwelcome most places in Storybrooke, even changing his name hadn’t helped. The town knew him too well. His father was a big name in the music industry with a reputation for being ruthless, dropping performers if albums didn’t chart as well as they’d anticipated with little remorse. Neal hadn’t been able to find work anywhere else, and there was something in him that she had seen of herself before she’d moved there — it was part of what had drawn her to him. She’d wanted to protect him. She’d wanted to help him. Emma had let him into her life when she knew he was struggling, just like Mary Margaret had let her into hers.

__They’d been kindred spirits, of a kind, and they had been happy. Until he had betrayed her._ _

“Watches aren’t packs of fucking _pop-tarts_ I used to pretend I didn’t see you swiping from the convenience store, Neal!” Something worth $20,000 had been entirely outside of what she thought he’d be capable of.

Neal’s expression hardened. “Yeah? Well forgive me for wanting to make it _real_. You think we were ever actually going to get to Tallahassee on our income?”

“Don’t you dare,” Emma hissed, raising an accusing finger towards him, “don’t you _dare_ make it about us. This is about you, you and the way you ruined my goddamn life!”

__“Emma, I swear to God, I had no idea you went to prison —”_ _

“Don’t play _games_ with me!” she cried, feeling the knot in her stomach only grow tighter; she was reaching the end of her thread. Her eyes were already shining, her wounds bared raw for the first time in over a year and the sting from the place just behind her nose letting her know there really wasn’t long until she wouldn’t be able to choke down the sob threatening to escape. “You gave me that watch and then you tipped off the cops while you got the hell out of town.”

__Neal shook his head furiously. “That’s not what happened!”_ _

“Then _tell me_ what —”

__The door opened abruptly and she cut herself off, immediately turning away from it so the new entrant wouldn’t see her face, taking slow, steadying breaths in an attempt to slow her heartrate._ _

__“What’s the hold up in here, then?” She identified the lilting British accent as Charles Blackbeard’s, and she immediately hurried to her camera case and began fussing with her equipment, if only to find some reason not to turn around. “Ah, Emma darling, I see you’ve met Baelfire here.” Evidently Charles was ignorant to the charged atmosphere in the room, to the way she could feel Neal’s eyes drilling holes into her back. “Took a while to hook him, you know, but he came so highly recommended by our label that we simply had to have him.”_ _

_Our label_. Suddenly, an aspect of the tour with Blackbeard’s Revenge that she hadn’t even considered came barging to the forefront of her mind — she’d never even thought to ask who their label was, but now he had said it the information came immediately to her, something she had acknowledged with interest but tucked away after the news had first hit Storybrooke that they had switched from their original label.

__Gold Records. Blackbeard’s Revenge had signed with Gold Records in January._ _

_He came so highly recommended by our label_.

__Gold had known where Neal was the whole time, masquerading around America under the pseudonym Baelfire to continue the work he had started in Storybrooke, all while she sat in county and spent the next year never even making it out of Maine. Gold must have known where he was and had protected his son from the warrant for his arrest — he’d even gone out of his way to secure work for him, as was evidently the case for the national tour of Blackbeard’s Revenge. This knowledge only served to incense her even further. After all she’d been through, Neal had gone and sold himself right back to his father. She couldn’t understand it._ _

__“Now come on,” she was dimly aware that Blackbeard was still speaking, “hurry up. The Rolly Jogers are on in twenty minutes, don’t you two have — lenses to clean, or some such?”_ _

__Emma couldn’t look around, let alone speak. Thankfully Neal took care of it. “We’ll get right on it.” After a few moments she heard the door to the conference room close again, but she knew from the shifts in the air that Neal hadn’t followed the musician out._ _

__She shook her head, packing her equipment back with greater force than necessary. “Now it all makes sense.”_ _

__Neal sighed heavily. “What does?”_ _

“After all that, after everything — of _course_ you went crawling back to your father for help.”

__She chose this moment to turn back around, staring him down in challenge. Neal’s expression contorted into indignation, holding up a hand to his chest and for all intents and purposes, appearing astounded by the mere notion._ _

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

__“‘Highly recommended by our label’,” Emma quoted back at him with bite, “Blackbeard’s Revenge are with Gold Records, Neal. It doesn’t take a genius to see what happened there.”_ _

__Neal blinked, shaking his head. “I didn’t — I didn’t know —”_ _

__Emma arched an eyebrow, her entire posture radiating disbelief. There was no way he wasn’t aware. “Don’t know a lot, do you?” She clicked her tongue, zipping up her case and hanging it back around her neck. “I have work to do. Just stay the hell out of my way and we won’t have any problems.” She made immediately for the door, almost daring him to contradict her._ _

__Instead, Neal threw up his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine. Okay. Whatever you say.”_ _

__Emma didn’t pause to see if he had anything to add, simply throwing open the door and heading back outside, letting it slam shut behind her._ _

__***_ _

__After their performance, Emma didn’t venture into the back room to meet the Jolly Rogers like she normally did — she didn’t want to chance on running into Neal. Instead she stayed at the front of the stage for the entirety of the interval it took Blackbeard’s Revenge to set up, thankful that the other photographer was nowhere in sight. It appeared he’d listened to her request to keep his distance, and aside from spotting him at the other side of the stage while they were working, Emma hadn’t been anywhere near him._ _

The photos she took were shoddy. Her arms kept trembling, her lens out of focus; she couldn’t get the exposure right. For the whole evening her mind had been a thousand miles away, and more than anything else she felt _frustrated_ by it. Neal had ruined so much for her, taken so much away, and now he was getting in the way of the one good thing she had going for her right now. The worst of it was that she knew she had to find some way to overcome the fight or flight reaction he incited within her, seeing as he would apparently be with them for remainder of their New England shows — that was still four more states. She had to get past this.

__Just before Blackbeard’s Revenge finished setting up, to then hopefully assuage and calm the restless crowd, Emma had spotted Killian standing at the side of the stage. When he caught her eye he offered her a shrug, motioning round the back of the platform as if to ask why she hadn’t joined them. Emma didn’t have the energy to try and explain it through charades, if she felt like explaining it at all, and instead lifted one shoulder in a half shrug and offered a weak smile. Killian’s expression remained concerned, so she turned her attention back to her camera. She didn’t have the willpower to deal with him too._ _

__Charles and his bandmates were as superb as ever, speeding through their set with a lightning precision — they experienced a few minor technical difficulties, but Blackbeard’s smarmy humour combined with Pan’s sharp tongue kept the audience enthralled while they were sorted out. Emma had to admire their professionalism, even if no matter what she tried she couldn’t quite capture it with her camera that night. She was far too wired._ _

When the gig was finally over and the crowd started leaking through the exits, Emma didn’t return to the bus immediately. She had no idea if the Jolly Rogers would be heading straight back for a kip or whether they’d wrangled an invitation to a party somewhere afterwards, and if she was frank she just didn’t feel ready for their questions. Instead she decided what she could really use was a _shower_ ; she’d gone longer without, but after her encounter with Neal she felt a stronger desire to wash and clear her body as well as her mind. Mercifully she’d had the foresight to pack most of her toiletries into her backpack before they’d left the bus, jumping at the chance when Smee had informed them there would be the opportunity to get clean while they were there.

__The venue offered a few stalls and Emma took her time. Merida wouldn’t leave until they had all checked in — a new precaution after that morning’s disaster back in New Hampshire. As water sluiced down her back Emma was astounded to realise her being stranded at the trucker stop had been less than twenty-four hours ago. It felt like centuries past._ _

_Forgive me for wanting to make it real_.

__Emma kept her eyes closed, taking a steadying breath as she splashed a few droplets onto her face. The scent of her shampoo (Lavender Rose, the bottle informed her) was somewhat calming, a reminder of home. She just couldn’t stop her subconscious from conjuring the image of Neal; she’d never expected to see him again, never in a hundred years. Partially because she knew he’d never have the nerve to return to Storybrooke, and there was a part of her that had resigned itself to remaining in that town for the rest of her life. It was just her luck that the first time she ventured out of state in years she came across him, not even thirteen full days after her departure. Neal Gold. Neal goddamn Cassidy._ _

_You think we were ever actually going to get to Tallahassee on our income?_

__For what it was worth, he had seemed genuinely surprised at a few of the facts she’d recounted to him; Emma had been too upset to properly pay attention, to use what he had once affectionately dubbed her ‘superpower’ of always being able to tell when he was lying, but she had a feeling if he had been it would have jumped out at her anyway. Even then it meant very little._ _

Tallahassee had never been about _Tallahassee_ , not for her. It had never been the city so much as the feeling, the home she had shared with him — wherever that was. Wherever they were, together. Tallahassee had just been a place she had pointed at on a map when they’d made plans for their grand adventures, for the life they would build the moment they could get out of Storybrooke. A setting for all their impossible dreams, not a genuine goal. Maybe he hadn’t felt that way.

By the time Emma made it back to the bus she knew she was quite late, but after dropping in on Merida to let her know she was on board, when Emma stepped through the side door she was met with the sight of nobody around. Perhaps they _had_ made it to a party. Feeling very refreshed, the aroma of lavender drifting from her hair and her skin, Emma decided she was ready to settle in for the night straight away. She dumped her small set of toiletries onto her bunk, at which point she realised she was actually very much _not_ alone.

__“About time, love,” Killian mused from where he was sitting on the bed below hers — he had already tucked himself in, back resting against the headboard and blanket pulled up to his chest, and he wafted a crisp, salted smell. It seemed like she hadn’t been the only one taking advantage of the washing facilities._ _

She clicked her tongue. “You have _got_ to stop spooking me like that.”

__“My apologies.” He offered her a grin, but even that couldn’t hide the fraction of concern she could spot in his eyes. She already knew he was going to ask about what had happened that night, and she wasn’t sure she could muster the strength to respond properly. Predictably, he continued, “is everything alright?”_ _

__“I just went for a shower is all,” she said, climbing into her bunk and slipping under the covers so she could change into the tank and shorts she used as pyjamas — she knew with Killian being the bunk under her he couldn’t see anyway, but she felt safer with the additional barrier._ _

__“A shower that lasted nearly an hour.”_ _

“I was _dirty_.”

__She could hear the smirk in his voice. “Would that be in the physical sense, or —?”_ _

__“Use your imagination.”_ _

__“Why bother, when the real thing is so much better?”_ _

__She’d woken up naked the morning after she had met Killian Jones. He’d probably gotten an eyeful once she’d passed out before he — what? Got into bed to sleep beside her? Emma had spent considerable time musing on just what had happened that night. The only comfort was she knew there was absolutely no chance he had taken advantage of her in any manner. She knew Killian pretty well by now, and that would certainly have been an occasion where he acted as more than the gentleman he purported to be._ _

__Emma trusted him, even if she wouldn’t admit it to him directly. He had lied to her about their sleeping together in the first place, and that had hurt her, but he hadn’t done it with malicious intent — as a misguided attempt to connect with her, certainly, but not to be an ass. Despite his best efforts Killian Jones was a good man, and against her better judgement she trusted him. Something had shifted since that morning at the trucker stop; that much Emma could privately confess._ _

__“Listen,” she started, once she’d finished changing and started hunting for her toothbrush, “I don’t have the energy nor the willpower to spar with you right now, so can we just not?” All she wanted was to go to bed._ _

__“Swan, I mean it,” his tone suddenly serious, “did something happen tonight? Or is it —” He hesitated and Emma paused herself, wondering if he’d met the new photographer yet. If he’d introduced himself as Neal. If Killian had been able to connect the dots. “It’s not me, is it? Our, erm, dalliance?”_ _

__Emma was grateful the rest of the cabin was empty right now (she assumed the others were off showering themselves, if Killian’s fresh scent was anything to go by). One drunken kiss and suddenly he was sure he was the reason for her sour mood; trust Killian to make it about him. Emma couldn’t help but roll her eyes good naturedly._ _

“ _Please_ ,” she muttered, slinging her legs over the edge of her bunk and starting to climb down, “that kiss was more _rum_ than risqué, don’t give yourself that much credit.”

“Good,” he continued, a briskness to the timbre of his voice that he quickly smoothed over before he carried on, “because I have something I’d like to show you and I wouldn’t want something like you _fancying_ me to get in the way.”

__Emma, finally able to look him in the eye once she righted herself, merely arched an eyebrow._ _

__When she didn’t move Killian lifted his duvet, motioning for her to slip in beside him. She remained rooted to the spot._ _

__Killian’s eyes rolled skyward. “Don’t be difficult, I’m trying to be nice.”_ _

__After another few seconds she let out a frustrated sound, before conceding and taking the cover from him so she could squeeze in next to him. The bunks were narrow enough for one person, for two it was almost unbearable. Killian was dressed for sleep, but luckily for her that meant a pair of sweats and a loose grey t-shirt, so she didn’t have to worry about any extra exposed skin. Within the confines of his bunk his scent was almost overpowering, and she had to physically stop herself from leaning sideways to get a stronger whiff of whatever shampoo or body wash he had used. It felt clean and the air was tickled with salt — she was somewhat reminded of the sea, and wondered if she would taste it on him if she let her tongue drop to his neck. There was something intimate in sharing such a tiny space, it was almost overpowering; for her already short-circuited emotional mind, the growing urge to throw away her pride and have her way with Killian Jones was proving more difficult to keep at bay._ _

__Emma just didn’t want to feel this shit anymore. And from the way he was staring at her through vibrant, already half-lidded eyes, she had a feeling if she asked him to make her feel better he would agree in a heartbeat. Her hands squeezed into fists at her sides as the blanket settled over her._ _

__“There we are, don’t be afraid to really get comfy,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth._ _

__Emma tried to glare back at him. “I thought you were being nice.”_ _

__As if remembering himself, Killian pulled his gaze away, his hand instead reaching for a silver chain she hadn’t noticed hanging around his neck — well, she’d noticed it, but given he never normally removed it the accessory hadn’t particularly stood out. When he held the end of it in his palm she realised it was a pocket watch, delicate and less than half the size of his hand. The small ornament was almost dwarfed by his grip, but it was the design Emma was immediately drawn to. On the front what looked like a ship had been engraved there, an old naval vessel like something out of the eighteenth century, all masts and sails and a beautiful silver prow resting above the waves._ _

__“This, here,” he started, swiping his thumb over the motif before moving it closer so she could pick it up, “is the Jolly Roger.”_ _

__The watch felt heavy in her hand and she had the distinct impression that Killian was holding his breath, as if he were hinging on her reaction entirely._ _

__Emma settled for something a little more neutral. “Isn’t the Jolly Roger the flag?” That’s where she has assumed the name of the band had originated from. “Y’know, the black one with the skull…” She trailed off._ _

__“It is,” Killian conceded, “but it’s also a ship. Captain Hook’s ship.” At her blank look he continued. “From Peter Pan?”_ _

__“I know, I know who Captain Hook is,” she flapped her free hand dismissively as her gaze dropped back to the intricate design on the watch. “Isn’t Peter Pan a kid’s thing?” She dimly remembered watching the Disney film when she was a child, but knew the story mainly by reputation._ _

__Killian shrugged, as if wanting to appear nonchalant. He didn’t quite pull it off. “Perhaps. Here, look.” Reaching over her, he pressed the dial on the top of the watch and the case clicked open, revealing a face just as beautiful as the shell. Ivory in colour and decorated with spidery, black numbers, three intricate hands moved around the clock at their respective paces. “That’s Hook,” he pointed at the minute hand, then the hour and the second, “and there’s the crocodile, and Pan.” Emma could see little images of the characters perched at the end of each hand, and a faint smile pulled itself from her expression._ _

__“Kinda like they’re all chasing each other around the clock?”_ _

__He nodded approvingly. “Tick tock. It reminds me that there’s always something to be chasing after,” if he threw a meaningful look her way she decided she didn’t notice it because of how closely she was admiring his watch, “or indeed, running from.”_ _

__Emma gave it back to him. “It’s cute. Goes with the pirate vibe.”_ _

__“My father gave it to me when I was a boy.” Killian slipped the chain back around his neck. “I always saw myself as something of a Hook-like character.”_ _

__She snorted. “What, waxed moustaches and perms are your thing?”_ _

__“Misunderstood villains and roguish charm, thank you very much,” Killian said, giving her his most offended look._ _

__“How would you play guitar with only one hand?”_ _

__“Don’t be a pedant, Swan. It’s a metaphor.”_ _

__“We could definitely buy you a wig.”_ _

__Killian heaved a heavy sigh, making a show of pinching the bridge of his nose and despite herself, Emma laughed._ _

__“Here I am, baring my soul and trying to be meaningful and there you are, making fun. I should never have showed you.” Although his words implied he was annoyed, his voice was too merry and his eyes too bright — she knew he was teasing her, and that only made her grin wider._ _

__“No, sorry,” she grinned, nudging his shoulder with hers, “I didn’t mean it. Is that where the name for the band came from?”_ _

__Killian snapped the watch shut, Hook, Pan and the ticking crocodile now hidden from view. “In a manner of speaking. Peter Pan happens to be a favourite with all of us — you might have noticed we call Tina Tink a lot. I suggested the name and we went with it, oh, years ago now. It probably means something else to them, if it means anything at all. This is what it means to me.”_ _

__Emma chewed her lip. “And your father?”_ _

__“Gone,” he said. Most people in his life seemed to be. There was a resignation in the way he said it that made her heart stutter, cracking just a little more for this man. “This is all I have left.”_ _

__They were quiet for a few moments, aware only of the temperature in the bunk rising because of the increased concentration of body heat. Killian’s right hand twitched and her eyes were drawn to it, as if he were resisting the urge to move it over to her. The idea thrilled her, even when she knew it shouldn’t. And just like that, she realised how much better she was feeling — for a full fifteen minutes she had forgotten all about Neal, the negativity that had clung to her shoulders like a lead weight she couldn’t remove melting slowly away. Whatever had caused it, she had a suspicion diverting her thoughts had been Killian’s intention._ _

__“Thank you,” she said quietly, “for showing me.”_ _

The smile he offered her in return was soft, but before he could properly reply the door at the back of the bus creaked open, and the startled pair looked up to see Robin and August clambering into the bus. She heard Killian mutter something that sounded like ‘ _always shitty timing_ ’, but Emma was too busy being mortified at having been observed tucked close into Killian’s bunk to have noticed. Her face immediately flushed and she reached forward to draw the covers back, but Killian’s hand landed on hers before she could.

__Judging from the surprised expression on his face he hadn’t expected to do it either, but regardless Emma’s hand slipped out from under his and she pushed away the blanket, picking up her toothbrush from where she’d left it and passing the other men to head towards the sink. She ignored the curious looks they both sent her, focusing instead on applying toothpaste with far more precision than necessary._ _

__Only a few minutes later Tina followed them inside, and the bus was filled with the fresh scent of strawberry and lime as towels were passed back and forth in an attempt to dry wet hair before they all went to sleep. The bus was infinitely more durable just after the occupants had had a decent shower. Somewhere in the middle of this the engine underneath them rumbled to life, and Merida’s blocky driving immediately started up._ _

__“She slams the breaks too hard,” Robin was saying, “that’s why the stops are so sharp and the turns are ridiculous.”_ _

__The comment was met with a non-committal hum from August and Emma hid a smile — he was probably the one person out of all of them who couldn’t care less about the driving style, sleeping at irregular hours regardless._ _

__“Anyone fancy a sevens game before sleep? I am so buzzed right now!” Tina was reaching for the pack of cards on her bunk before anyone had even offered a reply._ _

__“I’m wiped,” Emma said apologetically, “I think I’m just gonna crash.”_ _

__Tina gave her a dubious look. “I’m so hyped Emma, all I’ll do is keep you awake anyway. Join us for a few rounds then I promise I’ll pipe down.”_ _

__Part of her was desperate to protest, to climb into her bunk and crawl under the covers and sleep off her mental exhaustion for a few days — or at least get a head start pretending that Neal Cassidy wouldn’t be there to greet her at the next venue. The other part of her knew better than to call Tina’s bluff. She had a voice that carried at exactly the right pitch that usually managed to pierce any drowsy bubble Emma found herself in. Come to think of it, she was certain it was Tina who had roused her from her rum-induced haze before August had practically carried her back to the bus._ _

__“Killian’s looking like he’s not much up for it either,” August observed as he dropped down onto Tina’s bunk, motioning to Killian already buried half under his covers, “maybe you could share a hand? Between you you’ve probably got enough brainpower.”_ _

__The look August sent her was so innocent she could practically see the halo hovering a few inches above his hair. At the imploring glances from Robin and Tina she finally sighed, eyes trailing over to Killian. His expression was unreadable, and he merely made a show of scooting to the side of his bunk again as if to leave room for her. August began dealing the cards, and it appeared the decision was made for her — and besides, Killian had distracted her earlier and she was grateful for it. With the way his eyes brightened as she stepped over towards him she felt she could at least give him this. Without further preamble she slipped back under the duvet, immediately feeling the warmth of his bunk surround her, the scent of sea salt by now familiar and comforting. It was better than the stench of leather and the rusted nylon of strings that usually lingered around him, although there was something rugged about his usual countenance that she found herself mourning in the wake of this cleaner, fresher Killian._ _

He reached over her to retrieve the hand dealt by August as the others set about using two balanced guitar cases to form a makeshift cable, and Emma tried not to let her gaze linger on the tautness of his arm. Especially since he _definitely_ noticed, taking his time moving back to his side of the bunk. Never mind the game and her tired state of mind, this was maddening enough as it was without all the added variables.

__Robin and Tina carried the energy of a few rounds, bickering back and forth about choice of play in a manner Killian was usually just as vocal with, but with Emma beside him he had taken a far more subdued role._ _

__“Which?” he murmured, holding the hand in front of her, and Emma had to actively supress a shiver as his breath tickled the shell of her ear, instead choosing to focus on the cards in front of her._ _

__She hummed thoughtfully, Robin regaling them with a story about one of his hometown friends, John, over the top. “The eight.” Emma lifted a hand to point out the one she meant._ _

__Killian clicked his tongue. “Sure?”_ _

__Truthfully, she only made a show about being thoughtful because when he conferred with her he kept his head bent close to hers and part of it was exhilarating, knowing he was sitting so near to her and thinking very clearly on how he had made no secret of his wanting her. Her heart thudded so loudly when his fingers brushed her upper arms as he leaned over to place cards down that she was certain he must hear it, else he wouldn’t take great pains to make sure they did. They scarcely met each other’s eyes, speaking only in quiet murmurs in the background and lingering touches that needed not be as long or as gentle as they were._ _

__She could imagine the look in his ocean blues, though, tempestuous and hungry, like the morning he had woken up in her apartment, speaking lightly of pancakes while his eyes raked over her form. Emma could feel that same gaze burning itself into her cheek, imprinting onto the bared skin of her neck._ _

__Regardless of everything else, it felt good to be desired. Perhaps that was selfish. After the day she’d had, she couldn’t bring herself to care._ _

__Even with Killian’s proximity making her senses hyperaware, Emma still found her head nodding forwards and to the side as she blinked in and out of drowsiness, and it took only a few nudges of encouragement to prompt her into a lying position, letting her head fall to the pillow. It was entirely imbued with the scent of Killian, and she allowed herself a single deep breath she could pass off as starting to sleep. Emma was dimly aware she should’ve probably moved to her own bunk while she was able, but the game was still going on and the others were still chattering just as loudly. Their presence was reassuring — even if it hadn’t happened immediately, she had found a family here._ _

__Killian fell beside her soon enough and she was briefly roused back to wakefulness. After a moment’s hesitation he rested his arm around her hip, placing the cards in front of her so she could still see; and if asked, she was certain he would claim that as his excuse for placing it there._ _

__“Which next, love?” he murmured softly into her ear, his breath blowing tendrils of blonde hair away from her temple._ _

__The weight of his arm encircling her waist was driving her insane, the press of his chest against her back a calming touch._ _

__She had no idea how long after that it had taken for her to drift off, only truly aware of the comfort she felt around her — in a bus where the lack of walls and privacy was a constant source of stress, she had found a small, protected corner and her body had taken complete advantage of it. At some point or another the sounds had dropped to whispers, only ghosts of people playing at muted routines, moving inaudibly and readying themselves for sleep. It was only as she felt the gentle press of lips to her temple that she felt a contentment unlike anything she had experienced in years spread from her heart._ _

__“Sweet dreams, Emma.”_ _

__There was a shifting of weight, a sudden silhouette looming above her before it manoeuvred its way to her other side. The springs of the bunk protested, as did she at the loss of warmth, but only a moment later he was gone and Emma dazedly realised Killian had surrendered his bed to her, choosing instead to climb the small ladder into hers._ _

__Emma slept more soundly than she had in months that night, surrounded by every burgeoning vestige of him._ _

__(And two weeks later, when he debuted a new acoustic song in the middle of the Jolly Rogers set called ‘Lavender Rose’, she had no idea what to do with herself.)_ _


	9. got-some-answers-(which-would-be-great-if-I-still-cared)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's chapter nine! it's a ~little~ filler-y, but some important stuff's in here. we're finally heading towards the conclusion! I reckon there're probably 3 more chapters in it (don't quote me, this was supposed to be a one-shot :'D) but woo! thank you so much to all the comments/kudos you guys are leaving, it honestly means the world and makes this fic a joy to keep writing :) I'd love to hear your thoughts on this!

Twelve days before Killian unveiled his new track ‘Lavender Rose’ at a concert in Connecticut, Emma had been sitting on August’s bunk, leafing her way through the book he was usually delving into at odd hours of the night. 

“Once Upon a Time?” Emma said doubtfully, raising her voice slightly so it would carry to where August was heating up a couple of microwavable lasagnes in the kitchenette. “Aren’t you a little old for fairy-tales?”

The light patter of rain could be heard rattling over the roof of the bus, parked stationary on the outskirts of some small town in Vermont in the early afternoon. It was here Merida had insisted they stop for a few hours and she had disembarked for reasons unknown to the other occupants of the bus, and both Tina and Robin had been grateful of the opportunity to stretch their legs and had wandered into town to hunt down some food. The rest of the crew had taken one look at the miserable weather and elected not to join them. Emma, so she could show August the wonders of hot cocoa with cinnamon (he hadn’t been nearly as impressed as she’d insisted he would be), and August to indulge her. Killian had chosen to exile himself and his acoustic to the front of the bus where Merida usually slept, a few strands of melody floating back from the door every so often, occasionally with him humming alongside. 

August had told her not to think much of it, he usually locked himself away somewhere when he started writing new material, and with the radical upheaval of their daily life with the national tour it should come as no surprise to her that he was feeling inspired. Whatever his reasons, Emma had to admit she was a little bit grateful — the spike in her heart rate every time his eyes met hers was something she felt sure would become hazardous to her health if it remained unchecked. 

It had been two days since she’d drifted to sleep in Killian’s bunk, and neither of them had said a word about it. Nor had anybody else, which led Emma to believe she was probably making a mountain out of a molehill, but she couldn’t help it. She felt far too close to Killian and some distance would be much appreciated, just a chance for her to take a breath. Not to mention she still had no idea what to do about the Neal scenario — she was just grateful the lack of performance over the last few days had meant she didn’t need to run into him again, but her luck was rapidly fading. That evening would be their first gig in Vermont, and she needed to have a game plan by then. Or at least _something_. 

In response to her dubious question, she could hear the hint of a smile in August’s voice over the noise of the tap running. “It’s just a book of stories, Emma. Is it possible to outgrow a story?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Uh, yeah. Like ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ or Dr Seuss, or,” she flicked the next page over, searching for inspiration, “‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’.” She ran her fingers across one of the illustrations, even grudgingly impressed with its quality. The water-coloured strokes appeared both delicate and refined. “Although Killian told me about the whole Peter Pan kick you guys have, so.” 

“Ah,” August replied, “he showed you the Jolly Roger, then?”

“It’s cute. So we’ve got Tinkerbell, Captain Hook holed up in there,” she jerked a thumb at the door to the front of the bus, “so that makes you and Robin…?”

“Robin Hood,” he supplied as the beep indicated their lunch had finished cooking. 

Emma arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t you mixing stories a little there?”

“Maybe that’s the grown-up way to think about them.” He returned to the back of the bus then, handing the two trays to her while he clambered back into his bunk to sit beside her. 

“If you say so,” Emma began digging her fork into it, hungry enough to forget about the processed nature of most of the food they ate on tour. “So who are you then? Donald Duck?”

His eyes almost glinted in the low light. “I’m Pinocchio.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed. There was something so delightfully simple about August, he gave soft remarks without any expectation of a serious response, while always managing to look at her like he was in on some great secret that she wasn’t privy too. On anybody else she was sure it would be disconcerting, maybe even uncomfortable, but he harboured a great affection for her that was palpable in his every look and touch. It wasn’t romantic, and it didn’t set her blood to boil the way Killian did, but it was gentle. It was gentle and she was greedy and she usually stopped herself just short of nestling herself in his lap and asking him to tell her stories in his low, quiet voice until she fell asleep. It was fraternal, was what it was. August made her feel at home. 

“And why’s that?” she asked, smirking. “Because you’re made of wood?” 

He merely quirked an eyebrow, expression secretive. “Because I lie.”

“Huh,” Emma got out around a mouthful of lasagne, “I’ve never seen your nose get any longer.”

“That’s because I don’t lie to _you_.” 

“Is that so?”

August shook his head, the grin not leaving his expression. “You’d smack me for even thinking about it.”

This Emma had to concede with a tilt of her head and a laugh, August was well aware of how little he would get away with where she was concerned. They continued to eat in relative silence, the hammer of the rain against the roof of the bus the background clatter to the faint melody drifting from the front. It sounded pleasant, a little softer perhaps than most of the songs Emma had heard from the Jolly Rogers, but not in a disagreeable way. Once they’d finished August reached for his book, flickering through it and Emma watched, humming her approval when he pointed out certain illustrations he wanted her to take a look at. 

The door to the front abruptly opened and Killian emerged, mug in hand. He glanced only once at the pair of them perched on August’s bunk before turning away quickly and running the tap, letting the water wash over his mug.

Feeling compelled to say something, Emma asked him what he was working on. 

“Just — something I can’t get out of my head,” he said, not turning around as he scooped coffee into the mug. 

He only lingered long enough to pour the already boiled water from the kettle before he let the door to the driver’s cabin fall shut behind him, not permitting Emma even a glimpse at his pale blue eyes to see if she could get a read on him. Killian Jones was an odd one, that was for sure, and she couldn’t shake the distinctly disappointed feeling that curled itself around her shoulders, whispering about how he didn’t want to speak to her. She wasn’t sure when Killian’s attention had become something she wanted, or felt the loss of when he didn’t look at her — he was _allowed_ to be busy. He also owed her absolutely nothing. 

Apparently the growing proximity over the last week was sending her brain into overdrive. They were _friends_. Tentative ones, perhaps, but that was all. There was clearly no greater intimacy between her and Killian than there was between her and August, and she couldn’t work out why she continually separated the two in her mind.

It was that thought that had her hand reaching for August’s wrist, squeezing it once to gain his attention. The other man looked up from his book, eyebrows raised in silent question. 

“The new photographer for the rest of the New England shows is my ex-boyfriend.” The words fell from her lips in a rush, as if they’d been pushing to get themselves into the air all morning. Perhaps they had. 

August’s brow creased into something resembling sympathy, and Emma resisted the urge to internally recoil. “Really? That blows. Small world, huh?”

“My ex-boyfriend who framed me for robbery then skipped town, that is.”

“Oh,” August’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline, processing the information carefully, his surprise as soft as his countenance. “Do you — I mean, do you want us to do anything?”

Emma shrugged. “I guess? No, I don’t know. I think — I want some answers first.” She tugged on the end of her hair, legs curling up underneath her as she rested back against the wall. “So far I just yelled at him a lot.”

“I don’t doubt he deserved it.” August moved his wrist so his hand could reach hers, linking their fingers together and applying enough pressure to be reassuring. It didn’t make her hair stand on end the same way Killian’s touch did, but she mourned the loss of it all the same when he let go — the message was clear. She only had to say the word and Neal Cassidy could be out of her life forever, she just wasn’t sure what exactly she wanted out of all of this yet.

“But you see?” He grinned at her over the top of his book. “I pity the man who’d dare lie to you.” 

***

Emma had asked August not to tell the other Jolly Rogers about her relationship to Neal, meaning she silently begged him not to tell Killian — given he was the only one somewhat aware of the more intimate details and she found his behaviour the most difficult to predict, she wasn’t sure she wanted to encourage any sort of confrontation between them where he might try and protect her honour in the same way he had from Charles Blackbeard. The last thing they needed was Killian throwing a punch at the contracted photographer for Blackbeard’s Revenge. So long as they could work in peace, they could probably just part ways amicably when they hit New York. The next few shows didn’t need to be anything more than two old acquaintances working in each other’s periphery. Emma had no intention of engaging Neal any further than that. 

He held no such inclination. 

The rain had continued well into the late afternoon, and unpacking the equipment from the bus had been a mess of anoraks, hastily stitched together rain covers and a fumbling with umbrellas, but miraculously they’d managed to get all the gear inside with very little damage dealt to it. Emma had long since surrendered her raincoat to protect an amp so she was soaked through, but she almost welcomed the cool touch of the water to her skin — the air inside the Jolly Rogers bus was no less as stifling as it had been the morning she’d gotten stranded with Killian, and she’d take any form of natural relief available to her. 

Tucking her rain-matted hair behind her ear, Emma was perched on the edge of the stage slowly examining her equipment for any water damage; her case was fairly resilient, but it was well worth the check.

“Ready for tonight?” Killian’s voice came from in front of her and she glanced up to find him standing before her, hands folded in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“Shouldn’t you be in make-up? I don’t think your face is all there, Killian.” She gestured innocently to her bottom eyelid, hinting at the lack of kohl he usually applied there.

“Aye, very amusing, Swan,” he tutted good naturedly. “Is it true we have another photographer now?”

For a moment Emma’s heart leapt to her mouth, wondering if August had told him; she’d never have expected the man as one to break confidence, but her reply was guarded all the same. “Just for the rest of the New England shows.” Nine. She’d counted. “BR contracted him before they hired me.” 

“I see.” Killian didn’t appear to react to this information in any strange manner, so she attempted to will away some of the tension between her shoulders. “Well, hey,” he lifted his leg to gently tap hers with his foot jovially, “less work for you then, hm?”

Emma hummed noncommittally; she didn’t particularly want to dwell on Neal for longer than necessary. 

“Are you including that new song tonight?” she asked instead, carefully attaching the lens to the front of her camera.

Killian snorted. “Give a bugger a chance, won’t you? I only started writing it today. Genius doesn’t happen over microwavable lasagnes.”

Emma offered him a roll of her eyes, but a grin was pulled from her nonetheless. Her curiosity won out. “What’s it about?” 

He shrugged, waving a flippant hand. “Well, all music is subjective, isn’t it? What one song might mean to one person may differ entirely to what it means to another.”

“Uh huh.”

“For example, most assume ‘Survivor’ is about a man overcoming adversity, emerging victorious from all the trials and tribulations his life has presented,” his brow furrowed, but Emma could tell it was in jest, “whereas in actuality I wrote it with my great aunt Agatha in mind. She’s nearly ninety-eight and still going strong and I’d love to see my portion of her inheritance before I’m— _oi!_ ” He finished with an indignant laugh, as Emma had abruptly dropped down from the stage and thwacked him on the arm. 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

He smirked. “You _like_ it.”

“I tolerate it,” she corrected, gathering her equipment. “Have a good show, Jones.” 

“Anything for you, love.”

Emma exited toward the right of the arena to find somewhere to relax before the audience began piling in, pausing only to watch Killian jump onto the stage and return to helping the band set up — he was alright. More than alright. There were some things she could own up to now, readily. He was hot and cold, utterly incorrigible and seemed to enjoy making her life difficult, but he was also steady, sweet and had weathered a fair few storms of his own. She had a feeling he knew why Tina always surrendered the microphone to him whenever they played Survivor; Killian was the survivor. He was the one who had picked himself off the ground time and time again, and there was something admirable in that. There was more substance to him than she had ascribed there in their first meeting. 

_What’s a dirty girl like you doing in a place like this?_

_Is that the best you can do?_

Emma was so caught up in her own thoughts she didn’t hear Neal’s approach.

“Hey, um,” he began hesitantly, perhaps wary of her letting rip at him all over again or worried he might spook her into sprinting in the opposite direction — Emma wasn’t sure which she’d rather do. “Can we talk?” 

“We’ve already talked,” she responded in a clipped tone.

“No, you _yelled_ and I gaped like an idiot.” Despite everything, a smile did its best to tug the corner of his mouth upwards. His chestnut eyes glimmered in the low light and Emma couldn’t help but notice. “Can we really talk, please?” Emma hesitated and Neal hurried to carry on. “Or — or you can just listen and I can talk, that’s cool too. I just, I owe you an explanation.” 

“Look, Neal,” Emma let out a frustrated sigh, “if you’re going to try and clear your name or whatever, I don’t —”

“I won’t,” he insisted, “I’m not. All the stuff you said, I deserved that. I’m not gonna try and talk that away, I just want to tell you what happened. Will you let me do that?” When she didn’t immediately respond he pressed, in a pleading tone. “Please?”

Emma had wanted answers for fourteen months and nineteen days, and she was torn between this and her pride’s desire to never give him the chance to absolve himself. He didn’t deserve closure, he didn’t deserve the opportunity to justify his actions. 

He didn’t deserve any of that — but there were things she deserved, too. 

“Doors open in 30 minutes. That’s all you’ve got.”

Perhaps conscious of the fragility of her acquiescence, Neal hurriedly found them a more private spot to talk. He led the pair of them outside the building, taking shelter under an awning of a faded yellow as the rain continued to rattle against the ground around them. Emma dropped her back onto the wall and folded her arms, waiting for him to start; there was no chance she was going to lead this particular encounter. Her entire demeanour felt stiff, her body doing its best to throw up almost physical walls — she wasn’t going to run her mouth like last time, she’d had a chance to control that knee-jerk reaction, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be there any longer than necessary. Neal lit a cigarette, probably looking to calm his own nerves; another dirty habit she’d been able to rid herself of since he walked out of her life.  
Emma kept her gaze trained on his face, searching for any kind of lie he might try and spin at her.

Letting out a long breath, smoke curling from his lips, he began. 

“I got a job at the jewellery place, Feinberg’s. I was just a janitor so I didn’t tell you, didn’t want you thinking of me as even more of a deadbeat than I already was.” Emma opened her mouth to refute him from the off, she had _never_ thought of him as a deadbeat, but he lifted a hand to silence her, taking another drag. “Manager was a little too fond of her gin, but I suppose you know what De Vil is like — she’d forget to lock the case for the expensive watches, a lot.”

“Neal…” 

“I resisted _so_ many times. Then — I dunno. I got thinking about us stranded in Storybrooke, doomed to just illustrate other people’s stories. They were _asking_ to get took, Emma. $20,000 would’ve set us up for a long time.” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, finally dropping it onto the wet concrete and stubbing it out with his boot. “I was going to tell you a relative died, that I’d been left a sum of money my father couldn’t get his scaly hands on. We could’ve moved out of town, finally started a life for ourselves somewhere else. Something that meant something.”

That comment stung, but she tried not to let it. They _had_ meant something, right where they were. At least to her. “With stolen money.” 

“Store’s got insurance!” Neal retorted. “I was sure I had it made. Had a fence lined up, my bags packed — the only thing to do was sell the watches and convince you to come with me before De Vil was any the wiser. I set the groundwork, I don’t know if you remember. Spent all evening talking about Tallahassee, how much I wanted it for us.” She remembered. “I was gonna turn up on your doorstep the next morning with my bag, tell you to grab a few things and get in my car. Clean getaway.”

Emma’s face remained neutral, the fact he was intending to make her implicit not exactly a comfort. “The only person on my doorstep was Sheriff Humbert, Neal. If this was the plan, why did you give me that watch?” 

“Insurance,” he said, wiping a hand over his brow, “if we struggled down south I was sure I could convince you to sell it. You didn’t know how much it was worth but it could do for us in a bind. And I just…” Neal sighed, brown eyes slamming into hers. “There wasn’t anything nefarious about it, Emma. I _just_ wanted to give you something nice. We were in love, I had a plan and I wanted to put a smile on your face.”

_Soon. Tallahassee, baby._

“What happened?”

Here Neal looked away, colour flooding his cheeks and Emma took a modicum of satisfaction in his embarrassment. “Just — just after I got out of your car I headed straight to meet the fence. I wanted to get the watches off me as soon as possible, but that’s when I saw her. De Vil. She cornered me, she knew what I’d done. She’d gone through so much gin during my shift I was sure she’d be out for the night like she usually was, I thought I’d have until the morning to get the hell out of town — but she knew. Completely wasted, kept waving her phone around in front of me threatening to call the cops. I—I panicked, so I knocked her out.”

Emma was agape. “You _what?_ ” 

“I didn’t know what to do!” he burst. “If she called the fuzz it was game over! So I grabbed a plank of wood off the ground and hit her over the back of the head.” Cruella De Vil had always been a nasty piece of work, an ill opinion of Emma’s that had only grown when she’d stood at the opposing end of the woman’s accusations of theft — accusations that made very little sense if she really _had_ cornered Neal that night. If Cruella had known Neal was behind the robbery, why had she come for Emma like a bloodhound? She tried to process the information as fully as she could. 

“I’m not proud of it, Emma. It’s right up there with leaving you as the worst things I’ve ever done.” He let out a steadying breath, refusing to meet her eyes. “By this point I was _really_ freaking out — I had no idea who else she’d told, if anybody. I met the fence, sold the watches, got about $18k out of it. Then I sprinted home, grabbed my bag, got in my car and ran.”

Of course he did. They all ran from her, eventually. 

“I — I nearly stopped by your place. I swear to god, Emma, I regret every single day not stopping to just tell you what had happened or beg you to come with me, but I didn’t think that was fair. When things died down a little I was going to come back for you. I thought it’d be safer that way.” 

Emma clenched her jaw, feeling anger swell inside her; the same anger that had weighed her down for months following her arrest, that had risen up every time she looked at her camera, when she passed Feinberg’s, when she felt the hot glare from somebody else passing by her in the street. When she looked at her bug and saw him sitting in the passenger side, when she slept alone and imagined him lying beside her, whenever she heard anyone mention goddamn _Tallahassee_ in conversation. Neal had haunted her for over a year; _that_ wasn’t fair.

“Are you trying to say you had _nothing_ to do with putting me in jail? That it was all some kind of accident? Because —” Words seemed to fail her then, vanishing out into the storm. “Because if so how the hell did _that_ happen?”

The look Neal gave her was pained and he took a step toward her. Emma immediately pushed off the wall to move away, running her hands through her hair. She wanted nothing more than to jump back out into the rain, hoping it would bring some kind of reprieve from either the hugest lie Neal Cassidy had ever told or the fucking _coincidence_ that had ruined her life. 

But she’d watched him closely, and if her affectionately dubbed superpower was just as in tune with him as it had always been then he’d told her not one word of an untruth. 

This was _bullshit_. 

“I don’t know, Emma, I really don’t. I didn’t call the cops I _swear_. I thought they’d be looking for me, not you.”

“Well _someone_ did!” 

“The only —” Neal started and then hesitated, mouth pressed into a thin line. She had a feeling she was going to dislike whatever else he was about to spit out. “The only explanation I can think of is De Vil. She’s — she’s _vindictive_. I don’t know. Everyone in that town knew how much I loved you. Maybe getting you to go down for it was her way of getting back at me, I just — I have no idea what happened. The fact that you had one of the watches…” 

Emma scowled. “That _something nice_ you wanted to give me.” 

“Was probably what did you in, yeah.” 

Silence stretched over them. This was unbelievable. Over a year of hating, _reviling_ this man, and it was all some colossal misunderstanding. It didn’t excuse what he did, it didn’t come close — he had stolen from a reputed business, sour manager or no, and had tried to use their relationship as his justification for it. He had disappeared from Storybrooke without a word to her and left her to question all of the time they’d spent together, everything from the very moment they met. He had stolen so much more from her in those thirteen Cartier watches. Whether he’d known she went to prison or not, that didn’t change the fact that he’d never contacted her, never tried to explain himself. He was still a criminal. 

“Alright.” Emma finally said, breaking the steady peace like glass. “Alright. You left town, $18k in pocket. Then what? You just — carried on going to gigs, taking photos? Found your father? How did you know about the warrant?” 

Neal bit his lip, like he wanted to say something more about her arrest. Emma’s eyes warned him not to. Eventually he clicked his tongue and carried on. 

“I did run into my father, once. He tracked me down in Manhattan. About, I guess, a month after I left?” Just after they’d released her. “He’d heard about everything that went down and offered me a home again, my trust fund, apologised for everything he’d done before. He told me about the warrant to scare me, I reckon. Said he could protect me.” 

Emma tensed, waiting for his response. 

“I told him to fuck off.”

This, at least, drew the ghost of a smile from her.

“I’d survived this long without him, the last thing I needed was him now. I let him know what I really thought about him, the way he runs his business, about you — you were much more of a home for me than he ever was.” His expression contorted into something resembling fury, briefly clenching his hands into fists as he turned back into the storm. “He probably knew about your stint in county and didn’t say anything, the bastard. He’d have loved nothing more than for me to go back for you and have you reject me because you thought I’d sent you down for first degree theft.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Neal glanced back at her. “Didn’t I what?”

Emma hated how vulnerable the question sounded. “Come back for me?”

He shrugged, gaze dropping to his shoes, scuffing them along the concrete. “When I heard about the warrant I figured I’d give it a couple months. Given you were the only person I liked in that damn town I was sure they’d be watching you like vultures, so I waited to get in touch. Started working jobs out west, did a lot of the country scene down in Tennessee. I went to one of David’s shows once.” This he offered with something fond imbued in his tone and Emma felt a swell of righteous resistance against it. He didn’t get to talk fondly about David anymore, he didn’t get to be affectionate about _her_ friends. 

“Didn’t say hey, of course. Just worked under my pseudonym so Dad wouldn’t find me and kept my head down. By the time it got to five months, six…” He swallowed thickly, lifting his head. “I figured you were better off without me. I started seeing things — warped. Or clearly for the first time, who knows. I was always the deadbeat. Sleeping every night at your apartment because all I had was a mattress on the floor. Stealing food. Stealing the _watches_. I was a leech, Emma. A leech on you. I was no good and everyone knew it but me.”

He shrugged. “I just thought not barging my way back into your life would be kinder.”

 _Maybe it would have_ , she thought.

“Yet here you are,” she muttered.

“I can’t help that.” 

She lifted her shoulders and turned away — it was a petulant move, she knew that. From the sounds of it he’d honestly had no idea he would run into her. Part of her remained bitter, concluding he probably had no idea he’d run into her because he didn’t think she had it in her to get out of Storybrooke on her own. They worked in the same industry, after all; it wasn’t so far-fetched that their paths might one day cross, yet it had knocked them both on their ass. 

“You really had no idea Blackbeard’s Revenge had been signed by Gold Records?”

“No,” he looked perturbed, “and if my dad recommended me, recommended Baelfire, then there’s the real issue. He knows who I am, he could’ve been tracking me and my work for months and the longer I’m on this tour the more chance I have of running into him. I don’t want to see him, I don’t _want_ his help; you have to know that, Emma.” 

“I know,” the corner of her mouth perked upwards only a little, “you’re still you. He’s still a dick.” 

Neal let out a breath of laughter, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Look, I — I’m not expecting you to forgive me.”

“Good.” 

“I did some pretty shit stuff. And you got an even shittier deal than what I thought you did, so, bonus points for me.” The stoop to his shoulders was visible, the weight that had rested there since the start of the conversation having not ebbed away in the slightest. “I just wanted to clear the air. And I _am_ sorry.” This much was earnest. “I’m sorry about all of it.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, and Emma swore if he made some banal statement about wanting to be friends at the end of all this crap she was going to jab her knee into his groin — but he didn’t. And in lieu of a response to the apology left hanging open, she pushed up her sleeve to get a good glance at her watch. Doors opened in two minutes. 

“Alright, well,” she got out, awkwardly gesturing back into the building. “If we don’t get back inside we’ll both be out of a job. So let’s just — get stuff done.” 

As they made it to the door Neal reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, and Emma ducked out the way. She felt entirely strung out, exhausted. She didn’t have the energy to even _touch_ upon the mess of emotions he had turned over and re-bared to the open air, and she was one errant brush of contact away from a meltdown and the evening had barely begun. 

None of it meant she forgave him, none of it changed everything that happened — she still didn’t particularly want to be working with him, but she didn’t know how to tell him that in the wake of the honesty of his apology. Neal was genuinely contrite and that probably should’ve meant something to her — as it was, she just wanted the whole saga to be over so she could move on with her life. Hopefully the litany of answers he had provided would finally give her some closure. 

Neal started a new life and Emma went to prison. That was all. 

***

“Swan?” Killian had questioned her as she approached him backstage. They were on in five minutes, Tina was warming up her voice and Robin and August were engaged in a quick game of sevens leaving Killian strumming at his guitar, the same melody he had been experimenting with that morning, until he saw her and set the instrument aside. 

Emma didn’t usually come backstage so soon before they were due to perform. “Everything alright?”

Emma merely stepped into his space to wrap her arms around his shoulders, drawing him close and burrowing her face in his neck. Sea-salt and leather, and just as calming as she’d thought it would be. Killian’s arms reached up to encircle her almost hesitantly. 

“Just let me have this,” she mumbled into his collar, “I just need a minute.”

She waited for her pulse to slow.

Killian didn’t say anything, and when she released him he gave her an uncertain smile.

“Good luck today, love.”

“Yeah. And you.” 

***

Over the next twelve days and five shows, very little changed. The Jolly Rogers continued to improve and Emma was thrilled to observe the reaction to the opening act in every venue they took by storm — it was never exactly comparable to the response to Blackbeard’s Revenge, to the satisfaction of the egos of the men in the bigger bus, but it was something. Especially given they’d been walking into this with almost no fan-base at all. 

Emma had managed to broker a tentative peace with Neal. They didn’t talk about the watches, her prison sentence or his father again; Emma had been exhausted by those topics already. He’d heard her side and she’d heard his, and there was little else they could do about what happened. Constantly hashing it up would only be more painful for all involved and she was thankful Neal seemed to feel the same way. She wasn’t interested in picking up where they left off and he seemed to sense that, although it didn’t stop him from reaching out or making conversation when their paths crossed during a show — with a professional distance maintained, of course. 

She didn’t always rebuff him, either. There was a certain pull about Neal Cassidy, there always would be, but she needed this job to be just that; a job. And uncomfortable silences where she ignored him would probably more detrimental to her carrying out the job than occasionally taking Neal’s bait and agreeing to compare differences in shutter speed, allowing him to buy her a coffee or letting him sit and join her when she talked to the Jolly Rogers. There was something temporary about it and she was sure they could both feel it. Once the tour made it to New York they would go their separate ways, and they’d probably never see each other again. 

That was okay. Honestly. It was something of a relief to finally close that chapter of her life.

Neal was introduced to the Jolly Rogers as Baelfire, and aside from August none of them were any the wiser. The only real surprise of that encounter had been Killian’s tight smile — for a moment Emma had been sure he knew, only for her to discover she had it completely wrong. 

“It’s — well, he was Milah’s step-son,” Killian had gotten out, flustered, once Neal had left the room. Emma’s eyes had bulged. “There’s no need for — well, I imagine he doesn’t recognise me. We never formally met, but there were photos of him all around their home. Gods, he can’t be much younger than me, can he?”

Emma was still wrapping her head around the first load of information. “Ne— _Baelfire_ is Milah’s step-son? She was married to _Gold?_ ” 

Killian swallowed, hand reaching up to scratch the spot behind his ear nervously. “Did I, ah, neglect to mention that?” 

“Robert Gold? You had an affair with _Robert Gold’s_ wife?”

“Alright Swan, I think there are a few roadies out front who didn’t hear you.”

“But he’s ancient!”

Killian gave her an irked look. “She was a lot younger than him, alright? Can we please stop talking about this now?”

That had sent him into a temper for a few days, and Emma had the good grace to look a little sheepish about it — she hadn’t meant to be insensitive, just the world being so small was really beginning to grate. Not to mention the familial implications that were a little bit too weird for her. Killian had said the age difference between Milah and Gold had been great, but given that in some bizarre twist he could’ve been some variation on Neal’s step-father made things odd. And she couldn’t _tell_ him that because he had no idea Baelfire’s name was really Neal Cassidy and he was the last man she’d been in a serious relationship with. It was better not to dwell on it.

Her apology had been earnest and presented with carrot sticks and a bottle of rum, and Killian had accepted both without ceremony. 

Aside from that particular rather nasty surprise, the tour had continued on as predicted. Emma acclimated to life on the bus just a little bit better, bonded with Tina over a shared love of bear claws and even made sure to sit herself through at least three of August’s fairy-tale stories (she had to admit, she somewhat enjoyed the re-telling of Snow White that involved her holding a bow and arrow and doing a little more to defeat the Evil Queen other than simply falling asleep and being woken by True Love’s kiss).

These were all facts swimming near the back of her mind as she stood beside Neal just in front of the stage, pulling her hair up into a ponytail to keep it from plastering to the back of her neck. The Jolly Rogers had a few songs to go still, but they were taking the time to briefly switch around as Killian stepped up to the mic with his acoustic guitar instead of his usual Strat — he’d been a nervous wreck all day, a ball of tension she’d been unable to help unravel so Emma had merely kept her distance. When he worked himself up into a mood it wasn’t worth the effort to talk him out of it, and she suspected this was the cause of it. By the looks of things they’d finally get to hear the new song he’d been working on for the past two weeks.

“Ahoy there!” Killian called into the microphone, earning a few scattered hollers in response. He reached up with his free hand and brushed some of his sweat-matted hair from his eyes, and Emma resisted the temptation to follow the movement closely. “Many thanks to Tink here who has kindly agreed to let me have a shot. This one’ll be just Rob and I, it’s just a little something we’ve thrown together.”

“ _You’ve_ thrown together,” Robin pointed out, voice muffled without a mic of his own near the drum kit, yelling to be heard. 

“I’ve thrown together,” Killian’s confession ricocheted from every wall in the arena, “and I’m dragging him down with me. Anyway, here it is! I call it ‘Lavender Rose’.”

Emma’s stomach dropped to somewhere below her feet. 

Neal didn’t appear to notice, lifting his viewfinder to his eye and letting the click of the shutter punctuate his question as Killian began strumming the opening few notes. “Do you still use lavender rose bath stuff?” he asked conversationally, as if he were enquiring about her most recent meal. Killian mentioning it had probably just made him think of it, no suggestion that the two were related at all. 

Maybe they weren’t?

 _I call it ‘Lavender Rose’_.

When she didn’t respond immediately he lowered his camera. “Emma?”

Emma’s attention was still stuck on the timbre of his voice as it swept about the arena, gravelly and soft and intimate. On the feel of his arm around her waist and the whisper of his breath in her ear, on a night spent sleeping soundly on a bed that wasn’t hers that neither of them had ever mentioned again. And then he’d written a song about it.

Who was the one making mountains out of molehills _now?_

Neal glanced between her staring fixedly at the stage, camera clutched in a vice-like grip uselessly in front of her, before turning slowly back to where Killian was performing. It was probably the moment Killian’s gaze flickered down toward them that gave it away.

“You’re not serious,” he gaped, “you and _him?_ ”

Emma couldn’t even muddle enough words together to correct the wrong conclusion he’d likely already reached.

“Unbelievable. Fucking _hell._ ”

Her sentiments exactly, really.

Killian’s eyes found hers and she forgot to breathe. 

_Fuck._


	10. and-oh-christ-can't-I-get-five-full-minutes-to-myself-please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the looong delay, life got away from me there - but here is chapter ten! we're rattling along to our conclusion now, I have only two more projected chapters but we'll see how that works out! I want to give a huge thanks, as always, to everyone who leaves kudos or comments or notes on tumblr, you make it an absolute pleasure to keep writing. I also wanted to thank every single one of you who nominated this fic for the Best WIP under 50k category of the CS fanfic awards! I totally screamed when I realised, haha! I haven't been a huge presence around here recently or on tumblr so I won't presume to tell you who to vote for, but if you ~are~ interested in voting for the importance of being idle you can vote here: http://csfanficawards(dot)tumblr(dot)com/csfa2016wip-50 thanks everyone, and I hope you enjoy!

She wasn’t exactly _scouting_ for guys, not really. Even if she were, this was hardly the place to do it.

David Nolan was possibly one of the sweetest guys Emma had ever met, honest and kind and passionate about his art, his six-string, and his girlfriend — who so happened to be the most important person in Emma’s life. His music always seemed to embody the finer points of his character, a gentle soul from somewhere out west with pick-ups and old mustangs and dirt roads. He was a country boy, affectionately dubbed a ‘shepherd’ by Mary Margaret, straight-shooting and genuine; and his gigs usually attracted the same kind of people. Emma didn’t generally attend with the intention of cornering a guy she could bring back to her apartment, not like she did the concerts at the Warehouses. For David she was only ever there for moral support, or she was with Mary Margaret. 

Mary Margaret was backstage acting as a roadie for as long as he was in town and, well, Emma couldn’t _help_ it. It had been a while since she’d had a decent lay. And she’d spent too long thinking about Neal Cassidy today.

(Nearly fourteen months to the day. Was he off somewhere, finding Tallahassee without her? Living without her? Breathing without her?

Asshole.) 

If she wore a slightly shorter dress than she might ordinarily among the country crowd there wasn’t anyone around to judge her. There just didn’t appear to be anyone to notice, either. The venue was nothing like the Warehouses, relaxed, a large room with some rounded tables and a bar along one side, lit in a dim red glow from the florescent bulbs overhead but filled to the brim with quiet patrons. This was a waste of time, but then she’d known that from the off; she shouldn’t have bothered putting on make-up either. She’d worked her way through far too many tequila sunrises to make it to the end of the gig, and was getting ready to call it a night. Mary Margaret probably wouldn’t get in until morning given she and David usually went back to his place after a show, so there was no use waiting — which was why it would’ve been the perfect night for a one-and-done.

“Alright Kristoff, hit me with one for the road.”

The bartender arched an eyebrow. “You sure about that, Emma?”

She made an unimpressed noise and waved a hand, well aware her vision was already swimming a little. She wanted to sleep like the dead tonight. “Don’t be an ass. Give me my shot.”

Kristoff clicked his tongue in a way she knew was judgemental, but then he’d always been a bit like that — he was only looking out for her, really. Obediently he placed the salt shaker and a slice of lime on the countertop before pouring the gold liquid into a shot glass in front of her.

“Any chance of seeing that tab tonight?” he mused. 

Emma was already shaking salt onto the back of her hand. “Another time, buddy.”

Without much ceremony she licked the salt from her hand, quickly threw the shot back and felt the liquid burn before chasing it with the lime. She left the fruit there only for a few seconds, sucking up the juices before dropping it back down into the empty glass. Grabbing her purse, she turned to stand when someone slid into the bar stool right beside hers, the action briefly cutting her off. 

Her scrutiny found a smirk, stubble a few days old and bright blue eyes. 

“What’s a dirty girl like you doing in a nice place like this?”

British, tall, and a voice like dark velvet. Emma hesitated — maybe not a total waste of time, then. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Depends,” the man made no secret of his admiring her assets, “can I buy you a drink?”

It felt like there was a few second delay between what her eyes observed and her brain processed, but she gave him a onceover — and probably a non-too-subtle one as well. He wasn’t half bad to look at, broad-shouldered with a head of disarrayed raven hair she could imagine running her fingers through, a battered leather jacket and long, ringed fingers. Underneath his shirt she could see a silver chain and a few black-string necklaces and she had a feeling she could surmise just which ‘scene’ in Storybrooke he’d emerged from. Which did beg the question of why he was _here_ and not down by the Warehouses or at one of the after parties running along the beach.

“No drink,” she said. “But you can keep me company.” 

The man conceded with a grin and Emma settled herself back at the bar, lifting a hand to draw Kristoff back over and angling herself slightly towards the stranger.

“Killian Jones,” he said, holding out a hand.

Emma grasped it for only a beat, tingles of anticipation shooting up her spine. Yes, this was somebody she could take home. 

“Emma.”

“No surname?”

She shrugged, eagerly retrieving the sunrise Kristoff brought over and ignoring his pointed look. “You could be some creepy stalker-guy for all I know.”

His left eyebrow quirked upwards, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He could tell she spoke only in jest. “Point taken. Although my question still stands.” He nodded at her dress appreciatively. “Isn’t that hemline a little short for a joint like this?”

Emma crossed her legs, revelling in the way his gaze raked up her thigh. But her attention was drawn back to his face. “Is that _eyeliner?_ ” she parried.

“Aye, you’ve got me there,” he laughed. “But for the record it’s kohl.”

“Kohl is for boys who don’t like the word eyeliner.”

Killian tilted his head. “And what do you think about men who wear it?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t have an opinion.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes, wrapping her mouth around her straw and taking a few obvious swallows. Killian’s eyes darkened. “Do something nice and then I might.” 

“What about something nasty?”

Emma smirked. 

Killian mirrored it. “Are you certain I can’t pay for that sunrise?”

She shook her head, mirth pulling her lips into a secretive smile. “I have a longstanding tab.”

“For mercy’s sake, _please_ pay for the drink,” Kristoff interjected, and Emma picked one of the cherries from the top of her glass and threw it at him. 

“The grownups are talking, iceman. Scram.”

The bartender rolled his eyes and withdrew to a few paces down to talk to another couple watching the show; for a moment Emma felt a twinge of guilt, but she’d been to hundreds of David’s shows. What was one where she wasn’t paying attention, especially given the look Killian Jones was sending her was downright _sinful_. He seemed to be amused by her exchange with Kristoff, chuckling to himself as he raised his glass to her — from the shade of the liquid inside it was probably rum. Killian ran a hand through his hair slowly and Emma’s mind immediately leapt to her doing the same as her eyes lingered on the movement. From his answering grin he was well aware of the direction of her thoughts.

Deciding turnabout was fair play, Emma shifted so her bare knee was pressed against his. “So what’re _you_ doing here, Killian Jones?” she purred. “Doesn’t exactly seem like your scene either.” Her hand reached out only briefly to run her hand down the edge of his leather jacket. 

Killian’s own hand shot out to grasp hers before she could withdraw it, immediately starting to play with her fingers, running his thumb over and around them. The contact sent a thrill right through her.

“And what makes you say that?”

She grinned. “That shirt definitely isn’t flannel.” 

“Ah,” he chuckled, “but I _am_ wearing timberlands.” Killian leaned back so he could lift his black boot into the air and Emma twisted so she could confirm his statement before throwing her head back in laughter, an open and honest sound. Killian used the disturbance to tug her into a standing position, pulling her closer settling her firmly between his legs. Too surprised to immediately resist and too drunk to pull away once her arms came to rest on his shoulders, she let the comfort of this new spot wash over her.

Killian looked at her through half-lidded eyes, his free hand coming to rest on her waist. 

“Please tell me your name,” he murmured, the timbre of his voice turning smooth and excruciatingly tempting.

Emma gave the barest shake of her head, mirroring the new softness of his demeanour. “What fun would that be?”

Despite her rebuttal his eyebrows raised in challenge, fingers starting to draw delicious circles into her side. “We’re just two ships passing in the night, then?”

“Passing closely,” she said, punctuating it with a press of her thigh to the seam of his trousers, “I hope?”

Emma felt more than heard the low rumble in the back of his throat, but when Killian leant forward to snap some of the tension she pulled back, laugh tinkling even in her own ears.

“Shots?” she suggested instead, spinning where she stood back to face the bar, Killian’s hand falling to the small of her back and staying there.

They stayed there for another hour, trading shots and jests and watching each other with darkened looks over the rim of their glasses, and Emma’s steadily clouding vision increasingly tunnelled to only Killian. Killian’s eyes, Killian’s laugh, Killian’s scent — she wanted to commit it all to memory. He was a trooper about her refusal to let him purchase any drinks for her, too. Bought drinks implied debt, and Emma’s intention was never geared towards seeing him again. Perhaps he knew that, perhaps he didn’t. She scarcely cared either way.

She learnt he was a guitarist and while that initially made her cringe (they were always the hardest to get rid of), then he’d smiled and told her about all the filthy songs he would write about her and the apprehension was entirely chased away. The tequila continued to flow as easily as her laugh, but David had long since finished his set before their lips met.

“And I said to Robin, you can’t just _pull_ an excuse like that out of —”

Emma’s hands found the lapel of his jacket and she tugged him down to meet her, Killian’s arms immediately coming around her waist and massaging into the fabric of her dress, desperate for contact with her skin. His mouth opened almost instantly so she could dip her tongue inside, tasting the spice of rum lining his mouth. Teeth clacked unpleasantly together but still her hands slid up his chest, reaching for his hair and carting her hands through it in a way she’d fantasized about ever since he’d sat down, tugging him ever closer as if she were trying to erase any modicum of space between them. Their mouths continued to slant together but it was the whistles of other bar patrons that had them pulling apart, her fingers closing back around the edge of his jacket and he stumbled forward, a combination of being eager to re-enter her space and the alcohol they’d consumed between them.

Killian found his voice first. “That was —”

Emma didn’t let him finish. “My place. Now.” She reached for his hand and began tugging him in the direction of the bar, anticipation buzzing under the surface of her skin as he stumbled dazedly after her.

This was a night she was determined to remember. Despite that, she only managed to retain the foggiest of details.

***

Emma could still hear the thump of Robin’s bass drum, the hiss of the hi-hat as he beat out the rhythm to Lavender Rose. It was only a simple accompaniment, the song was simple in its nature, but it continued to tread its way across her subconscious against her will. 

Thump. Thump. _Hiss_. 

_I call it Lavender Rose_.

Emma drifted through the crowded hallways of the house, if it could be called a house — Jefferson’s permanent home in Connecticut was far more of a mansion, never-ending stretches of panelled wood and immaculately furnished rooms after rooms after rooms, all full of anonymous faces and noise and the shudder of a bassline blasting out from speakers around every corner. Emma barely acknowledged most of it. 

Thump. Thump. _Hiss_. 

She was only there because Neal had insisted she go, not allowing her to duck out and retreat to the bus when she’d worked herself up into such a mood. The after party after their first gig in state had been planned since the tour started (given they would be performing so close to where the bassist for Blackbeard’s Revenge lived), and since joining them driving slowly down the east coast the invitation had been cordially extended to the Jolly Rogers, and by association Emma as well. Neal had little else to do and had become very popular with the members of Blackbeard’s Revenge, so once he’d confirmed Robert Gold wouldn’t be attending he’d agreed to go and had all but dragged Emma along too so she couldn’t be left alone with her thoughts. 

_I call it Lavender Rose_. 

Emma ducked into a hiding place just past a door jamb, beer in hand, and tried to catch her breath. Objectively it had been a nice song, a _great_ song. Its charm lay in its lack of embellishment, of added ornamentation; it was just Killian and his acoustic and a steady beat from Robin on the drums. It was more about Killian and his expression of feeling rather than the extra bells and whistles the Jolly Rogers usually liked to throw into their songs. It had been an easy listen, and something softer to bring their set into a more rounded production before concluding with the power chords in ‘Survivor’. Musically, it was a triumph. The crowd had loved it.

Internally, Emma had _freaked out_. 

The lyrics were simple enough. Pining for a woman, hopeful in tone, describing the effect she constantly had on him all culminating in a description of the scent of her skin. Lavender Rose. Emma’s choice of bath scent. Although desperate to immediately dismiss it as the coincidence Neal had initially assumed it was, she knew she couldn’t — not with the amount of time Killian’s eyes flickered to hers as he performed. He’d done this deliberately, with intent. He had _written a song_ about her. 

Killian _liked_ her, sure, she knew that; he was attracted to her. That much had always been obvious. But this was — different. This wasn’t sharp banter or lascivious remarks or rum-induced kisses under a pale pink sky. This was genuine emotion, a heartfelt confession. A gamble.

A plea. 

Killian Jones cared deeply about her and he’d just declared it to six thousand strangers in Connecticut. And his closest friends. And the object of his affections. _Her_.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Neal had said, and he’d said nothing else until the song was over. Emma had stood with her gaze transfixed, her camera held uselessly in front of her and been unable to do anything but stare and let the melody entirely wash over her as her heart rate began to increase with every rattle on the snare.

She was in too deep, _way_ too deep, Killian Jones had just written a song for her and she’d stood there gaping like a goldfish when she was supposed to be working, like a schoolgirl who’d been singled out in assembly. When the song concluded to loud cheers clamouring from behind her Emma nearly stumbled, shaken back to reality as she was. Neal seemed to notice and was watching her carefully, opening his mouth as if he were going to say something but thought better of it. Silently, Emma begged him not to say anything; that desire went unheeded. 

He cleared his throat. “You… okay?” 

Emma kept her eyes glued to her camera, pretending she was adjusting settings. “Yep.”

“Aren’t you gonna go backstage?” 

Neal probably expected her to. Given he’d already likely come to the incorrect assumption that she and Killian were _involved_ , not to mention she usually took a break while Blackbeard’s Revenge were setting up to go and congratulate the Jolly Rogers for twenty minutes or so, the fact that she was rooted to the spot was definitely unusual. Emma couldn’t face the idea of heading backstage, not when she was already in so much of a muddle. She didn’t want to look up and see Killian’s face at the curtain, eyebrows raised in a silent question. 

She couldn’t face him, not yet. Not until she knew what she would say.

_I call it Lavender Rose_. 

“Nope.” She answered Neal in a clipped tone. 

The other man leant against the stage, camera discarded, and Emma could feel his gaze drilling holes into her temple. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Emma. You know that.” 

For a moment she lifted her eyes to meet his, giving him a dry look. Like she could _ignore_ this? “Don’t be naïve. Of course it will, it has to.” Killian had given them traction; whatever vague ghost of an idea the pair of them had been flirting with, he’d pulled it right up another notch. He wanted to be with her, properly. And now she had to answer.

It was all rattling a little bit too far out of her control for her liking. 

“It will if you act like this.” Neal shrugged, lifting himself up by his arms to perch on the edge of the platform. “If you put up a front or avoid him then you’re making it mean something.”

He was right, but since she couldn’t work out his motivation for pointing out such a thing, Emma chose to ignore him.

“You’re literally the last person in the world I want to have this conversation with.”

“It’s just a song,” he persisted, and Emma let out a frustrated sound. “It’s not an obligation or a binding contract, hit the breaks for a second.”

She threw him a sharp look. “Bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, no,” the corner of Neal’s mouth turned up in an almost nasty approximation of a smile as he shook his head. “You don’t get to do this. Don’t lash out at _me_ because you’re scared shitless.”

“Right, because I wouldn’t have nearly as many issues when it comes to opening myself up if it weren’t for my last boyfriend dumping me by giving me a criminal record.”

Neal clicked his tongue. “You’re upset so I’m not going to rise to that.” 

“Thank fuck for _Saint Neal_ ,” Emma spat. 

The silence stretched only for a few moments, but she wished it lasted longer — where did Neal get off deciding he got to have an opinion on any of it? Even if their circumstances were a little more conventional and he was merely a ghost of boyfriends past, he still didn’t get a say over what she did with her private life. They weren’t friends. She didn’t think it was too unreasonable to say they never would be. He didn’t get to caution her, or worse, offer _advice_ , because anything he said mattered less than dust under her feet. Apparently Neal didn’t share that sentiment.

“So you like this guy?” 

“Not having this conversation.”

“Fine, fine.” In the corner of her eye she saw him wave a hand, before turning his head to the side of the stage and lifting his shoulders nonchalantly. “But he’s hovering by the curtain probably watching for your reaction, so.”

Against her will her eyes shot upwards — only to be met with nobody where Neal had indicated. 

“You _do_ like him,” Neal said triumphantly.

Emma hit him on the shoulder. _Hard_. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“I’m trying to stop you from making this a big deal!” he shot back. “A song is a song is a song to an artist Emma, but I can hear you overthinking it from here. I _know_ you. I know you’re talking yourself right up to a ledge — you’re five private minutes away from cutting him out of your life for good because he stepped up and admitted he gave a shit.”

Emma fumed, opening her mouth to hiss out _something_ but Neal was already cutting her off. 

“I don’t get to say shit about how you should be treated and what you deserve — and I barely even know the bastard. All I know is if it’s freaking you out because you don’t want this and you don’t care about him then that’s _fine_. It’s _okay_. It’s fucking do-re-mi and a drum kit, just because he did this doesn’t mean you owe him shit. But if you’re about to explode because you _do_ like —” He hesitated for barely a second, “because you _do_ like him and it’s terrifying then you can work it out by yourself, at your own pace. Don’t convince yourself you have to act one type of way in the name of self-sabotage.” _Self-sabotage?_ Was _that_ the burning need she felt inside to run, to get out, the rising flood of panic she could feel attempting to close up her throat? “All I care about is you, Emma. You and you looking after yourself because at one point in your life, I was the person you trusted most and I fucked it up.”

He pointed needlessly up onto the stage. “That guy, there? He wrote you a song. I spent my last quarter on a jukebox so I could play you Yaz. They could’ve both been nothing if you wanted them to, you’re in control.”

She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think. She needed to get the hell out of there. 

“Do you understand me, Emma? You’re in _total control_.” 

Emma wasn’t sure when he’d dropped down from the stage, but suddenly she was aware of his hands on her shoulders grasping tightly. He was bent slightly so he could look her closely in the eye as if he were imprinting the sentence onto the front of her mind. She was in control. Nothing had to move faster than her. At his silent urging she took a steadying breath, tried to reel in her derailed thoughts ever since she’d heard the words _Lavender Rose_ pour out from the stage. 

Somehow, he’d managed to say just the right thing. He’d always had a gift for that. 

Emma’s voice felt impossibly small when she finally spoke. “Why are you doing this?”

Neal smiled ruefully, letting go of her. “I just want you to be happy. In whatever form that takes. Fuck knows you deserve it.”

Uncomfortable with the intensity in his chestnut stare, Emma folded her arms and looked away, camera hanging loosely around her neck. Killian wrote her a song, fine. But Neal was right. There was a part of her already gearing up to climb into a cab and pay the fare all the way back to Maine just to get away from it — he’d lied to her before, he’d hurt her before, and having Neal walk straight back into her life and bring back all of the pain she’d pushed down for so long didn’t exactly help matters.

She was terrified. She was _allowed_ to be. 

Mostly, she had to decide if the risk was worth opening herself up to the possibility of being happy again. Toying with the idea while he’d been just a charming guitarist playing her a one-man show in a warehouse wasn’t enough; she had to give Killian a real answer. Whatever that meant. She and Neal didn’t speak again for the remainder of the set, and when Emma tried to quietly suggest she would retreat to the bus instead of joining the others at the after party at Jefferson’s he had shut her down point blank. 

“No chance. I’m not leaving you alone with that survival instinct of yours.” 

Which left her roaming the halls of Jefferson’s mansion, a bottle of beer in hand, confronted with hundreds of faces of fans and executives alike chattering aimlessly or swaying to undefined waves of music that appeared to ricochet off the very walls of the house. She’d arrived later than most, she knew that, convincing Neal to stop for a caffeine break if she was expected to be up for another few hours and he had reluctantly agreed, if only because it was a small price to pay to keep her active and out there. With that in mind she was almost certain the Jolly Rogers and Blackbeard’s Revenge must already be in the house, but their attentions were likely being constantly diverted by the hundreds of people who had flocked into the mansion.

No sooner had she thought it than her eyes locked with the familiar electric blues of Killian Jones, chin lifted into the air as if he’d been trying to gain a little height over the crowd. The notion that he’d probably been looking for her twisted uncomfortably in her gut, only to be confirmed when he opened his mouth. She was sure his lips had spelt out _Swan_ before he’d started to squeeze his way through the hallway but she didn’t stick around to find out. 

Emma ducked through the doorway into another room, bright orange tiled floors and immaculately clear surfaces aside from empty cans, bottles, and a large rubbish bag lifted from the trash can and steadily filling with discarded pieces of food. A few individuals were already hovering near the work surfaces engaged in chatter a little quieter than the other rooms she had slipped through, and Emma enjoyed the brief moment’s peace. 

But apparently Killian knew something about the layout of the house that she didn’t.

In only a few moments his taller form was in front of her, and she hadn’t the slightest idea from where he’d sprung. Her eyes lifted almost painfully slowly from his chest all the way up to his face, where his mouth hung open in light surprise — he’d been eager to talk to her, they both knew why, and it appeared now she was standing right there he had no idea what to say.

Emma found herself entirely mute, almost afraid of what might come out of his mouth. A tremble ran itself through her shoulders.

Killian tapped the edge of his beer can with his other hand decisively. “Emma, about tonight,” he murmured, “I —”

She never found out what he’d meant to say as suddenly Charles Blackbeard and Isaac Heller slung into the picture, with the former draping his arm around Killian’s neck. Killian let out a noise of frustration, his eyes briefly turning skyward. 

“Jolly good show tonight, Jones,” Blackbeard smirked, his arched eyebrow the silent request for acknowledgement of his pun; he didn’t get one from either Emma or Killian.

“That new number was, ah,” Isaac tilted his head to the side, as if searching for the appropriate word, “ _dinky_.” 

It wasn’t exactly a compliment and Emma could see Killian’s shoulders bristle — but his eyes remained focused on hers.

“Aye, well,” he said, barely noticing the others, “I was just trying to find out what Emma thought.”

Two extra pairs of eyes rolled to look at her, one calculating and one amused, and Emma felt her cheeks begin to warm and was sure the tops of her ears were reddening. She was spared from having to fumble her way through a response when suddenly another arm threaded through hers and she turned to face the sharp expression of Tina Bell. 

“C’mon, Ems — shots?”

Whether Tina had any idea just which scenario she’d rescued her from Emma had no idea, but she mutely nodded and cast Killian only one apologetic look before allowing herself to be dragged away. As she moved slowly out of earshot she began to hear Blackbeard suggesting some melodic changes to be made to Killian’s new song and she felt a twinge of regret. 

She just wasn’t ready yet. Fuck knew when she would be. 

Tina led her over to a glass cabinet, various bottles lining its shelves and she tugged it open. 

“Choose your poison,” she grinned. 

Emma’s gaze skimmed the alcohol available —if she was honest, her stomach was unsettled and she didn’t particularly like the look of any but found herself blindly selecting one all the same. 

“Sambuca?” Tina looked like she wanted to laugh. “You really aren’t having a great night, are you?”

Her tone implied some greater knowledge, but Emma couldn’t get a proper read on her as she was reaching into another cupboard for a pair of shot glasses. 

She’d never exactly made a point of hiding what kind of bath products she used, and as the only other girl showering in proximity to her Tina was probably the most likely of the Jolly Rogers to know. But did she? Although even then, it probably didn’t take a genius to work out who Lavender Rose was about, her shampoo aside. Killian was about as subtle as a freight train.

“You know,” the other woman started, twisting the lid off before pouring into the first glass, “we weren’t exactly a band that formed naturally. We weren’t all friends at first, just friends with Killian. He’s always been a bit angsty, Robin’s wife had just died, and August — well,” she laughed lightly to herself. “August was probably just bored.” 

Emma felt the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. 

“But my point is, they didn’t start this to make it big. They started this as a hobby, to get themselves through something difficult. Some bull about the catharsis of music, who the fuck knows.” 

Having finished pouring the shots, Tina made no move to hand one to Emma just yet, instead turning to face her with her green eyes as shrewd and unreadable as ever. Tina had always been the hardest for Emma to connect with, to tell when she was being genuine — she was all jagged edges, like her, and she held her cards close to her chest. Sometimes Emma got the distinct impression the other woman didn’t like her, and other times she wrote off the sensation as standard prickly behaviour. They were pretty similar, after all. Emma could recognise someone who had been burned before.

“Me?” she continued, her forefinger drifting around the edge of one of the glasses, “I was always in this to win it. I wanted to sing and I had some pretty fucked up ideas about how I should be doing it, too. Got myself in with some rough characters telling me I should be acting a certain way if I wanted to make it, had to be a certain someone willing to do the dirtiest things.”

The music still reverberated through the kitchen, but here Emma felt like noise was slowly drowning out. She had no idea why Tina was telling her this, or what she was even _trying_ to tell her, but something about her countenance made Emma not want to stop her.

“I had nobody looking out for me, no family, nobody who believed in me. This time three years ago I was sunk as low as you could go.”

Emma eyed the other woman carefully. “Why are you telling me this?”

Tina picked up the two shots and Emma made to take one of them, but the blonde pulled it out of her reach. 

“I didn’t have anybody,” she said, “until Killian.” 

Emma’s hand dropped back to her side, and something in her chest clenched tight. She didn’t want to hear more proof of Killian’s unwavering strength of character, not when she just wanted ten minutes alone to make her _own_ decision. 

“I couldn’t even believe in myself until I met him. He gave me a family, a home. He can be a right royal pain in the ass when he wants to be but he’s a good man who gave us all something worth surviving for.”

Finally, she pushed the small glass towards Emma, who took it hesitantly.

She shrugged then, affecting an air of nonchalance that didn’t ring true with the sentiments she’d just expressed — especially when her eyes were just as hard as ever.

“So don’t fuck up, okay?” 

Tina clinked their glasses together before tossing her shot backwards. Emma followed only the breath of a second behind, resisting the urge to cough against the immediate sting that hit the back of her throat. 

The fact that all the Jolly Rogers apparently appeared to be on board with the idea of Emma and Killian didn’t do anything to alleviate the pressure she felt to come to a decision, and fast.

Once they were done, Tina returned the bottle to its place on the shelf and took her arm, dragging her back into the party. 

The night wore on without her running into Killian again, and not by any lack of effort on his part; whenever he made an effort to segue into a conversation she was involved in or pull her out from a crowded room she somehow managed to duck his every attempt. In fact, she’d taken to using other Jolly Rogers as chaperones perhaps without their knowledge — there was no chance Killian would try cornering her about Lavender Rose if she was walking around with one of his friends, after all. It was part of the reason she found herself clinging tightly to Robin’s arm as they walked into one of the sitting rooms, her grinning at some anecdote he was offering her about his young son, only for him to break off as he read the atmosphere of the room they'd entered at around the same moment she did. 

Blackbeard, Isaac and Malcolm stood leant against one wall, drinks in hand and amusement colouring their expressions while Killian sat perched on the arm of the sofa, a sofa Neal was currently lying across. Tina stood at the back, saying nothing as she stared into the bottom of the bottle she was holding. The air crackled with tension, and they’d walked in on Killian throwing something rather heated at the trio. 

“—Say what you like,” he snapped, “but at least none of us bloody _scammed_ our way into a record deal.” His cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet, and Emma knew the look well, suspected he’d probably had a little too much to drink by this point. Guilt spiked in her chest for a moment, so her grip on Robin’s arm tightened. 

“Scammed?” Blackbeard held up his hands in a bemused gesture, although his eyes were shrewd. He made a show of looking around at his bandmates. “I don’t think any of us have ever done that, have we?”

Killian scoffed, waving a flippant hand. “Please. Everyone knows what happened with Eric. He felt you were compromising yourselves artistically so you could sign with Gold and you chucked him.” 

Emma spotted Robin wincing out of the corner of her eye, as if he too wasn’t entirely sure whether he should be interjecting or backing out of the room. Thankfully it appeared to be a slightly more private area of the house, and the party continued to rumble on behind them without any real disturbance. 

“We and Eric did come across some creative differences, to be sure —”

“I’d rather play in a garage with my friends for the rest of my life than act anything like you lot and succeed in this industry.” Killian topped this comment off by downing the remainder of his glass (rum, Emma was certain) and setting it on the floor. 

Behind him, Emma could see the moment Blackbeard’s stance hardened, and he folded his arms. 

“So confident are you, then,” he began loudly, “of your position on the moral high ground?”

“Where you’re concerned?” Killian spread his arms. “ _Sure_.”

“At least none of us would ever sleep with another man’s wife.” 

Killian was on his feet in seconds, the movement rippling out in the room as Robin took a step forward and Tina pushed herself away from the wall — in a mirror of the sudden action Blackbeard took a sharp step away, echoed by Isaac and Malcolm. Irrespective of them Killian turned, his eyes seeking out the only person who didn’t move. Neal. 

“You _do_ remember me,” he gaped.

Neal moved into an upright position, offering only an agitated shrug at being suddenly put on the spot. “How could I forget you?” he scowled. “It was bad enough my dad married a woman nearly _my_ age, but then to have her cheat on him so brazenly?” He spluttered in indignation. “It was humiliating!” 

Emma found herself rallying to Killian’s defence. “Neal!” 

“Neal?” Killian frowned. “I thought his name was Bae… _Neal?_ ” Emma blanched as she spotted the moment he put all the pieces together, cursing her slip up. “The jewellery thief?”

Neal whirled around to face her. “You told _him_ that?”

“Hey, I am allowed to tell anyone I want!” she shot back. 

In the corner, Blackbeard and his bandmates all sported matching grins. Isaac even rubbed his hands together with glee. “Seems like we’ve all got quite a few skeletons in our closet. I wonder how excited Mr. Gold will be to hear we invited his wife’s lover with us on tour?”

“He probably already knows,” Neal said, lifting a placating hand, “just leave it.” While Emma appreciated the gesture for what it was, an attempt at diffusing the situation, it was too little too late as far as she was concerned. Especially given it was _his_ fault the members of Blackbeard's Revenge even possessed that information. 

“I suppose while we’re trading in honesty,” Malcolm then pushed off the wall to sidle up towards Tina, “got anything to add?”

She gritted her teeth. “You can shut your mouth, Pan, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Emma could see the whole situation spinning wildly out of control, and she imagined Robin was just the same, but it seemed as utterly useless as trying to stop a car crash from the first moment of collision as tensions from weeks of snide jibes and petty rivalries, spurred on by the liberation of alcohol, began to boil over. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” Pan was smirking, “you need me. Need _us_. Everyone knows you’re just using our fame to try and catapult your pathetic excuse for a band into somewhere worthwhile in the business.” Robin left her side in that instant and was by Tina in a flash, a hand on her arm trying to anchor her from lunging forward, if the fury in her eyes was any indication. “But then you know all about sleeping your way to the top, don’t you Tina?”

Robin wasn’t enough, she lurched forward all the same. 

“Why you little _shit_ —”

The drummer clamped his arms around Tina’s to stop her throwing a fist at Malcolm Pan, who barked with laughter and darted out of her reach on nimble legs. 

“Look,” Emma said, trying to insert a voice of reason, “maybe we should all just calm down —”

To her irritation it was Killian who cut her off, stepping forward until he was a hair’s breadth from Malcolm and towering over him. 

“Just what is it you’re trying to say, mate?”

The younger man was completely unintimidated, wiry grin staring back up at Killian. 

“We’re saying, _mate_ ,” he mocked, “you pick very fine company. I wonder which would be easier to get into bed, Tina or your lovely _Emma_ —”

There was a bone-wrenching crack, a crash of shattered glass, and all hell broke loose.


	11. and-then-I-realised-there-are-few-things-more-detestable-than-a-gang-of-goons-with-all-the-power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeey! another delay, but this time not as long as the last which I'm pleased with. we're very near the end now folks, just remember to clap your hands and believe and it'll all work out in the end. ;) as always, thank you so much to all the comments and kudos I've received so far, it means the absolute world! and now, enjoy!

“Well that’s what they get for having a goddamn _brawl_ in the middle of your house.”

Truthfully, Emma didn’t even see who threw the first punch, the entire altercation was a blur. All she knew was one moment Malcolm had been gloating about something, spewing some crass comment about her or Tina and the next moment he was flying backwards, crashing into some antique coffee table and sending it in pieces to the floor. Killian and Tina had both been standing over him, and in all honesty she was sure it could’ve been either of them — or perhaps in an unprecedented show of synchronicity from the oft-bickering pair, they’d hit him in unison. 

The following ten minutes were manic; Blackbeard and Isaac had jumped forward to defend their fallen bandmate and even Robin had been pulled into the fray. Emma had tried to step in and stop things from escalating too badly, but she’d received a swift elbow straight to her nose which sent her reeling backwards. It was hardly clean fighting, it was clumsy and involved a lot of grabbing and fumbling, and by the time Jefferson and August came sprinting from the other room there was only Killian and Blackbeard left rolling around on the ground to be separated. 

That was over an hour ago. Since then, the injured parties had been marched into a private room full of executives who’d been attending the party, only Jefferson exempted for reasons that appeared unclear to Emma, and the rest of the guests had been sent home.

“It’s seen worse,” the bassist said, mumbling more into the trash bag he’d brought from the kitchen than to her, “the house, I mean.” 

“Still,” she said, before pinching the bridge of her nose and testing to see if it was throbbing any less. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t start it.” 

“No, but I wasn’t much help finishing it.” She bent down to pick a couple of pieces of splintered wood. “This wasn’t worth anything, was it?”

Jefferson shrugged, offering a rueful smile. “Nothing I can’t come up with myself.” 

Guilt and unease both roiled in Emma’s gut, warring for which could make her feel worse; nothing about that private meeting felt particularly promising, and the Jolly Rogers’ place on the tour was already a fluke. Starting, or even just participating, in a fight in Jefferson’s house was hardly the gracious thanks they should be giving their hosts, smarmy as they were. In a tour full of unpleasant surprises, this appeared to be just the latest in a long line. 

An unpleasant surprise of his own, Neal had slinked off somewhere else the moment any sort of formal executive had entered the scene, likely slightly fearful one of them might recognise him or call his father, or worse. That didn’t stop the spike of irritation Emma felt towards him — it was his fault Blackbeard’s Revenge had known about Killian and Milah, undoubtedly something he’d let slip in an attempt to curry some favour with the band. Or perhaps he’d just wanted somebody to vent to about the apparent frustrations he’d been harbouring over the situation. Whichever it was, she was pissed and she at least felt like she had a right to be. 

Emma carried her own garbage bag around the room, picking up discarded bottles and cans and dropping them in without ceremony. It was only as she was clearing the surface of a dresser that she came across a few scattered photo frames, apparently of the same girl at various ages. There was one of her perched on shoulders that were clearly Jefferson’s, his face lit up in a wide smile. 

She turned her head to look at the other man beginning to sweep some glass. “She yours?”

Jefferson looked up, eyes seeking what she was pointing to before nodding mutely. 

“My daughter, Grace.” He answered her question before she could even give voice to it. “She stays with her grandparents while I,” he waved a hand around absently, “tour.”

Emma hummed quietly to herself. “Don’t you miss her?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards sadly. “Endlessly.” 

Jefferson had always seemed like something of an odd one out when it came to the members of Blackbeard’s Revenge — by far the most tolerable, yet easily the one Emma saw the least. He seemed to bear no interest in the petty rivalry that existed between the two bands since the tour started, his only concern every time she saw him had been playing the music then returning to the bus. Before that moment she hadn’t any idea he even had a daughter. Compared to the others he was hugely private, and not for the first time Emma wondered how he’d managed to fall in with slimeballs like Blackbeard and his two cronies. Whatever it was, he kept himself isolated.

They cleared the rest of the room in an easy silence; Emma wasn’t feeling particularly chatty and she imagined Jefferson was the same, glancing through the hallway at the door to the office to see if either of the bands had emerged yet. 

Just as she looked up for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes, the door suddenly flew open, crashing against the adjacent wall as it groaned on its hinges. Emma jumped, then watched as Killian shot out like a bullet, quickly pursued by Robin and August who were apparently trying to assuage his ire. Tina followed a little bit after, and Emma noticed the pack of ice she had pressed against her knuckles — none of them had emerged unscathed, after all. 

Before Emma could even ask the question, Tina was shaking her head bitterly. 

“We’re off the tour.”

It took a moment for Emma to even process the words. 

“ _What?_ ” 

Jefferson chose that moment to loudly tie up the trash bag he had been using to clear up the room, before lifting it and making a swift exit. Emma thought she might have caught a sympathetic look while he was on his way out, but then she could’ve easily imagined it.

It took a few seconds for Tina to compose herself enough to respond to Emma’s concern. 

“Apparently we’re _volatile_. Unpredictable. Too much of a risk for New England and Gold Records, in any case.” She grunted something incomprehensible, all but hurling the ice pack to the ground in frustration. Emma, totally unsure of what to say, merely watched. “We blew, it Emma.”

When she finally looked up, Emma thought she could spot a sheen of moisture in front of her usually sharp eyes. 

“We blew it.”

***

The atmosphere on the bus was even worse. 

As opposed to every evening they’d spent playing cards or swapping stories or putting on impromptu photoshoots, the Jolly Rogers merely lay on their own bunks in silence. Something heavy hung over the entire cabin, a thing that overwhelmed like disappointment or shame, and Emma had no idea what to tell them. She still didn’t know what exactly went on in that room and Tina hadn’t been particularly forthcoming with information, all she could do was let the total despondency of the situation wash over her. 

They had come _so_ far, against all the odds stacked against them. Blackbeard and his cronies had always held all the cards; all they’d needed was to bait the smaller band into an altercation and get them thrown out. Why, though, Emma couldn’t say. Some twisted power struggle that only they were playing, most likely. Now they all had to suffer for it.

“This is my fault,” a voice rumbled quietly from beneath her bunk. Emma didn’t think she’d ever heard Killian sound so small. “I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed was deafening, potentially even accusatory. They were friends, would always be incredibly close, but Emma could sense them all trying their hardest not to blame Killian or Tina for the lost opportunity — tricky as it was. She had lived in Storybrooke for years now, had watched musicians wither and fade while they waited for a chance like touring with Blackbeard’s Revenge to come along. Luck was it happening just the once; impossibility the twice. 

“You weren’t the only one in there, Killian,” Tina pointed out gently. “I don’t even know which of us hit Pan first.”

“He deserved it.” Robin’s response was firm, resolute. 

“Just a shame it screwed up our chances in the process,” August sighed, and there was a murmur of agreement. 

Emma couldn’t stand it, these people she’d come to consider her close companions just _giving up_. So while she was still a firm believer that hope speeches were much more Mary Margaret’s territory, she couldn’t just let this all go without fighting for it. 

“Gold Records aren’t the only label out there, you know.”

“But I don’t imagine he’ll make our lives easy. Nor will the press after all this comes out.” 

“Are you kidding? You knocked the living daylights out of the drummer for Blackbeard’s Revenge, what could possibly be more badass than that?” She could almost hear the cogs whirring as the others considered this a little more carefully. “And besides, I’ve been at these gigs — I know the people who have been listening to you, who’ve bought your EP and are no doubt enjoying it right now. You don’t need goddamn Blackbeard, or any of his crap.” 

“Don’t we?” Killian muttered bitterly from the bunk below. 

Emma chose that moment to lean over the side. “ _God_ , you miserable lot, of course you don’t! It's a fact that people are gonna try and tell you what you can do and who you should be for as long as you guys are in this business. You’ve just gotta punch back, alright? Punch back and say ‘no, this is who we are’. And what you are is incredible musicians who are gonna go so far, screw the rest.” 

“We do already have the punching thing down,” August said amusedly as he finally looked at her from across the cabin, and Emma’s heart surged with warmth.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, of all people, that there aren’t any fairy godmothers in this world." At her remark August laughed loudly, and threw a pair of his socks at her. “But there aren’t. And none of you need them.” 

“Emma’s right,” Robin rallied behind her as he sat up. “So what if things aren’t going as planned — we were always going to release on album on the back of the national exposure, and we _have_ that, don’t we? Let’s go back to Storybrooke and just get straight back to it.” 

Tina let out a crow of agreement and, buoyed by their enrgy, Emma suddenly dove for the folder she kept at the end of her bunk, before slipping down the ladder and pulling her boots on. 

“Where are you going?” asked August. 

“To give Blackbeard his photos and get my damn paycheck.” 

There was no chance Emma would be staying without them — not now that they were a team. Mary Margaret had encouraged her to take this opportunity based on the ways it could advance her own career, but it was so much more than that after the last month with them. To a smattering of cheers from the Jolly Rogers, she dropped out of the bus and into the starry night, eyeing up where the other vehicle was parked across the lot. 

“Swan, wait,” after a moment Killian landed beside her. “I’ll come with you.” 

She was going to tell him she could handle it by herself, but found her tongue tied at the immediate sight of him. He'd been so distant since way before that night's concert, and she'd spent the entire time avoiding him at Jefferson's party. The melody of Lavender Rose still thumped through her, and she was also somewhat struck by the knowledge that, however indirectly, she must have led to Killian losing his temper at Malcolm. The moments leading up to the first crash of glass had long since flown from her memory in the wake of the events that had followed, but she distinctly remembered her name coming out of Pan's mouth. Not to mention he had already been pretty wired, desperate to talk to her about the song he had performed just a few hours ago to six thousand people in Connecticut. All of that seemed like such a long time ago. 

So instead of protesting she simply nodded, allowing him to follow her there. His company would always be a reassurance to her.

Killian easily fell into step beside her, but just before she reached the bus she felt him reach out and gently tug at her upper arm. 

“Thank you,” he said quickly, as if she wouldn’t let him get the words out if he wasn't, “for what you said in there. I needed that.” 

His eyes, electric blue in the darkness that surrounded them, darted between hers, searching. For what, she wasn’t sure. But for just one second she found herself desperate to be able to observe whatever it was that he saw in her, whatever it was that made him stand up in front of thousands of strangers and declare his feelings for her, whatever it was that made Tina trust her with Killian’s heart, whatever it was that kept him kind, and generous, and warm, that made him want to stay when so many others had walked away. Just once, she wanted to see it. Then maybe she could trust it. 

“I meant it,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze and hoping he might, in turn, be able to see just a modicum of the regard she held for him. Something in her must have shown it, because he broke out into a heartfelt grin, running his hand down her arm until he could squeeze her hand. 

He swayed forward, and for a moment Emma thought he was going to kiss her, but he swung back at the last momebr. She ignored the surge of disappointment immediately. 

Killian let go of her hand. “Give them hell.” 

Emma smirked, before turning to knock loudly on the door to the bus. After a few moments, it hissed open and she clambered up into it. One glance behind her confirmed Killian would not be joining her, but she didn’t blame him. It’d suit everybody if the two groups didn’t come into contact at all until the Jolly Rogers were firmly on the road home.

Everything Emma had thought might be true about the other bus was immediately confirmed upon her entering — it was far more spacious than the one provided for her and the others, kitted out with a full recording studio towards the front complete with fitted microphones and already set up permanent amplifiers. The beds were wider with curtains they could draw across to create a little more privacy, and everywhere she looked there were smooth surfaces, polished marble and plush comforts for any and every desire the occupants may have. 

The members of Blackbeard’s Revenge were lounging at the back of the bus in a sort of makeshift seating area, a few cream sofas that sat around the kitchenette (complete with stove as well as microwave and sink). At her approach they stopped whatever they were talking about and watched her with interest, and if she wasn't mistaken the trace of smugness she had come to expect looked far more amplified than normal. To her delight, however, Pan was sporting a deep, purple bruise along the shell of his cheek that he was pressing a pack of ice to — but even that wasn’t enough to stop him looking as smarmy as she had become accustomed. 

“Miss Swan,” Blackbeard boomed from his spot on the sofa, tuning the strings of his guitar. “I presume you’ve heard the good news?”

Emma ground her teeth together, but refused to rise to it. 

“Here,” she said, and tossed the folder so that it landed onto the coffee table in the middle. Isaac immediately reached forward to open it. “You’ve got enough, and they’re good. I want my money.”

Charles blinked. “But we’re only halfway through the tour, my dear.”

“You’ve got Baelfire,” his pseudonym tasted bitter on her tongue, wrong. The life he had created without her. “You don’t need two photographers.” 

“And what, pray, do you expect us to do once we get to New York and he leaves us for good?”

Emma shrugged. “Why should I care?” 

“Those Rolly Jogers have made you so entitled, Emma.” Isaac tutted as he looked through the photos. “They’re nice, I’ll give you that. But you can’t honestly expect us to pay you for a three-month tour when you haven’t even been with us for half of it?”

“Look,” she snapped, “you don’t like me and I don’t like you. Just give me what’ll cover this past month and I’ll be out of your hair. Hell, you can pay me for half if it’ll make you feel any better.” 

Blackbeard tutted loudly, leaning forward in his seat and carefully placing his guitar against the wall. 

“No, no,” he said, clicking his tongue, and watching her with a wicked expression. “That won’t do at all. You signed a contract, my dear, a contract to be with us until October. I’m sure you remember that any breach of contract will incur a substantial termination fee — one I am almost certain you wouldn't wish to bring down upon yourself.” 

Emma froze, trying to wrack her brains back to the contract Smee had set in front of her when she’d first agreed to the whole business; she’d never been one for going over every detail, a _sign first_ think later sort of girl, and at the time she’d convinced herself three months were such a short time to be away. Even if there was a termination fee and she had known about it, the chances were that the Emma before stepping on that bus couldn’t imagine any scenario in which she’d be leaving after such a short time. Back then, she’d thought Killian Jones was going to be her biggest problem. She couldn’t have known how utterly wrong she would be. 

“You can’t be serious,” she settled for saying, hoping to be calling a bluff.

“I assure you, I have never been more serious in my life.” 

“How much is the termination fee?” 

Charles Blackbeard didn’t miss a beat. “Five-thousand dollars.” 

Five- _thousand?_

There was no way she could cover it. She and Mary Margaret had never exactly been well off, not with Emma’s meagre earnings at Granny’s and occasional pull from a piece in the Mirror, and as a local elementary school teacher her roommate was hardly rolling in it either. 

“So of course you’re welcome to go home with the Jolly Rogers, darling. Shall I have an invoice sent to your address?”

Emma’s fists clenched at her sides, more than ready to give a repeat performance of earlier that night, but if the self-satisfied smirk on Blackbeard’s face was any indication, he knew he had her in the palm of his hand. Although she didn’t reply, kept her jaw resolutely shut, Charles must have seen something in her expression that alerted him to her decision — the only choice she could really make. 

“Good. Well,” he brushed down his coat, removing some imaginary lint and made himself comfortable on the sofa again. “First thing tomorrow we’ll move all of your stuff over to our bus, how about that? At least then you’ll get to enjoy the rest of your tour in style.”

Emma snatched the folder back from where Isaac had left it on the table, before storming out of the bus. 

***

The next morning, Emma watched from the edge of the parking lot as gear was transferred between the two buses. Members of the crew worked tirelessly to make sure none of Blackbeard’s Revenge’s equipment wound up going home with the Jolly Rogers accidentally, and Emma sat on the sidewalk with her own small suitcase and camera bag as she waited to be summoned to her new residence. The whole business left a rotten taste on the edge of her tongue, like smoke from a fire that refused to be put out. Of course the Jolly Rogers had been horrified that she was being made to stay, none moreso than Killian, and it had taken a long time to talk them down from doing anything about it — they were in enough trouble as it was, the last thing they needed to do was make it worse. Like adding something helpful like a legitimate assault allegation to it. 

She couldn’t imagine doing this tour without them. Without August reading her fairy-tales from across the aisle, without Robin’s steadying stories about his son, that life experience that Emma was sure she would never have, hell, even without Tina and her sharp eyes and caustic wit keeping everybody in line. 

And without Killian. 

Without Killian and his light, his boisterous humour, that sense of knowing exactly when to buoy her up or leave her alone, his stupid post-its with dumbass messages. Without Killian and the song he had written just for her. 

Emma sighed heavily, letting her chin rest forward on her knees. She would miss him. It had been a long road admitting that, and she could still remember him posing the question to her that night in her apartment when it all went wrong. 

_Will you miss me?_

Of course she sodding would. 

There was the scratch of shoes upon gravel, then somebody was moving to sit beside her. For a fleeting moment she thought it might be Killian, but found herself disappointed when she caught the familiar scent of Neal’s cologne instead. It was the first time he’d crawled out of whatever rock he’d hidden under after the fight, and Emma couldn’t help the immediate spike of revulsion she felt at his being near. Logically, she knew he didn’t cause the fight. Nobody made Killian or Tina swing their fists, it was their mistake and they would own that, but that didn’t help her wanting somebody else to blame. 

“I heard about what happened,” he said, and for his part he did sound genuinely sympathetic. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.”

Neal scratched at the back of his neck doubtfully. “I mean…”

“Not _all_ your fault,” she corrected. “It was a dick move to tell Blackbeard about Killian and Milah.”

“It was a dick move for him to do it.” 

“Neal,” Emma warned. 

He held up his hands. “You’re right, sorry. It was a dick move, and I don’t know why I did it. Vanity, probably. I’m a human being and he humiliated me and it felt good to get back at him.”

She sighed, finally allowing herself to look at him. “At least you’re honest.”

For a few minutes more they sat there in silence, and surprisingly Emma felt the calmest in his presence she had been since that first moment he had appeared in New Hampshire. Gone was the tumult he usually left in his wake, the twisted sensation of rage and regret broiling around in her gut — all that was left was nothing. Nothing at all. Even if it didn’t feel altogether like a totally positive thing, she couldn’t imagine anything being worse than the last couple weeks and the meagre explanations and diversions all pulling the floor out from under her. 

“I could stay,” Neal said suddenly. Emma gave him a blank look as she turned back to him. “Past New York, I mean. I’ve been counting down the days but I could stay longer — if Blackbeard needs a photographer.” 

Longer on the tour with one of Gold Records’ most popular groups could only mean a greater chance of crossing paths with Gold himself. “What about your father?” 

Neal shrugged. “I’ll have to face him sometime. He already knows my pseudonym, my entire career. May as well get it over with now if it’ll help you out.” He shifted his trainers on the gravel underfoot, dropping his gaze. “I know you want to leave with the Jolly Rogers.” 

Emma bit her lip, looking back at where the crew were loading the final pieces of equipment they’d retrieved from the Jolly Rogers’ bus, while her four friends and Smee looked on. Killian threw a glance over his shoulder and caught her eye, gesturing for her to join them with a barely perceptible nod of his head. 

“That’s… a nice offer,” she said, something wistful in her demeanour as she stood. “But I don’t think Blackbeard and his goons would make it that easy. They just want to make everyone they can miserable, and this is the best way for them to do it.” Neal followed her to his feet, lips parted as if he wanted to say something else. Emma cut him off before he could. “I’ll see you at the next show.” 

Emma picked up her bag and trudged over to where the Jolly Rogers were standing, apparently all set and ready to hit the road. 

“I can’t believe you’re not coming with us,” Tina muttered, with a little more ferocity than was necessary as she glared at the bigger bus.

It felt like it only really hit her then that they would be saying goodbye. 

There was no way of knowing for sure if the four of them would still be in Storybrooke by the time she returned. As Killian himself had told her, the town was more like a stop along the way than a final destination, and Emma had no doubt that the band would be moving as quickly as they could — capitalising on the national exposure while it still counted, attempting to secure a record deal before any potentially bad press could be leaked. They had a lot of work to do, and they couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Not if they wanted to get anywhere close to what they were aiming for in the first place. 

“I guess it does kinda suck. Although, living without Robin slamming the bathroom door in the middle of every night?" She shot the man a teasing grin. "Can only be an improvement." 

He stepped forward enveloped her in a tight hug. “I’ll miss you too, Emma. Don’t let them boss you around.” 

Before she could respond Tina had quickly pulled her into her arms. “But if you have too much fun without me I’ll be pretty pissed off.”

Emma smiled into her shoulder. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Tina drew back, eyeing Emma for what appeared to be an open affection for the first time — she let herself enjoy it. She’d never been a tearful goodbye sort of person, not when goodbyes had been all too common in her life and tears shed over her all too rare, but the idea of it lurked at the edge of her mind once August stepped forward. 

“So,” he said, keeping his hands held firmly behind his bag, concealing something from view. 

“So,” she echoed. She could feel her heart start to thud, a tug in the centre of her chest when she thought about saying goodbye to this person who had become so much to her in such a short time. The first chance she got she would goddamn _end_ Blackbeard and all of their Revenge. 

August brought his hands forward to reveal what he’d been holding; the old story book they had spent many a night reading from, the one with the beautiful illustrations and the Snow White who preferred the bow and arrow to the pretty dresses. Emma liked her a lot.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” August continued, that knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, the one that promised of secrets to be told. “A little forget-me-not, if you will.” 

“Couldn’t if I tried,” Emma countered, mirroring his grin. Only instead of taking it, she lightly pushed the book back towards his chest. “But keep it, please. I know how much this means to you — and I don’t need it.” 

His eyebrows jumped to his hairline with amusement. “Oh no?”

Emma shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. “I don’t need the fairy-tales. I think I’m already on my way to believing I can make my own destiny.”

August’s smile could have lit up three blocks. 

“Good,” he said, pulling her close, “good.” 

Emma allowed herself a strong intake of breath, of the leather of his jacket and the scent of freshly carved wood and tried to commit it all to memory. She didn’t want to forget a thing. 

She traded a handshake with Smee and promised to try and catch up with him for updates on the band’s progress as soon as possible, but before long she was running out of ways to put off her final goodbye. Killian hovered, shifting from one foot to another in a show of what she interpreted as despondent frustration, both patiently and impatiently waiting for her to get to him. Eventually she turned, her steady gaze assuring him he had her full attention, but apparently whatever he had been eager to say died on his tongue. 

“Swan,” he merely got out. “I, uh…”

In a particularly conspicuous attempt at being inconspicuous, he chanced a glance over his shoulder where the others were still watching. Evidently it jolted them into action, as in moments Tina was ushering them all onto the bus in order to afford them some privacy, and Emma was grateful. For what she wanted to say she could do without the added audience.

Killian was still struggling for words, and eventually let his gaze drop to the ground with an amused laugh. “Throw a man a rope here, Swan. I really don’t know what to say.” 

Emma couldn’t quite muster enough levity to laugh with him; it was all such a mess. An incomprehensible bundle of emotions that left her only, really, wanting to beg him to stay. No more and no less. She didn't want to watch him go. 

“I wanted to thank you, Killian,” she started, begging for her words to remain steady. “For getting me on this crazy train to start with. It’s been…” She shrugged, searching for any adjective that would fit and not finding one. “Great. Really.”

He waved a dismissive hand, a frown drawing his eyebrows together. “It’s nothing.” 

“It’s something,” Emma insisted. He didn’t have to come back for her; he didn’t have to enter Granny’s that day and invite her down to the Warehouses for a private concert, he didn’t have to encourage her to join their tour, he didn’t have to try and cheer her up when it was clear she was feeling low, let her confide in him and do the same with her, listen to her closely when she spoke and make her feel more a part of something than she had in years. He didn’t have to do all that, but he had done it. He had let her graciously into his life, and even his heart. 

Speaking of which.

“And Lavender Rose?” Killian perked up as she mentioned it, eyes immediately searching for some answer in her own. Emma could only smile gently. “I loved it. Thank you.”

Killian’s hand found hers, bringing it to his mouth so he could press a light kiss into it, and Emma resisted the urge to sigh. The entire time he kept his eyes on hers, a level of scrutiny there that she found herself meeting stroke for stroke. He smiled then, something soft and rueful.

“There’s not a day will go by I won’t think of you.” 

She willed her answering grin to not be as watery as she was sure it must be. 

“Good.” 

Stretching only slightly on her tiptoes, Emma leant forward to press her lips to his cheek and let them linger there. Desperate to remember the feel of the scruff underneath, the scent of the sea and rusted nylon, she took her time before backing away. By the time she did so, Killian’s expression was all warmth and an almost childish joy. He raised one eyebrow in the fashion of a challenge she had seen him utter on more than one occasion, and it had heat spreading out within her to the tips of her fingers. 

“I’ll see you on the other side?” It was more like a promise than a request. 

Emma smirked. “You bet.” As if she would let him do anything else. 

Before he pulled away entirely he kissed her cheek in turn, squeezing her hand one last time before moving past her and up into the bus without a backwards glance.

And not fifteen minutes later, as she watched the bus slowly recede into the pale light of the morning, Emma resigned herself to another couple months of hellish work and worse company.

(She should’ve known better than to doubt Killian Jones.)


	12. And-then-Killian-Jones-was-extra-but-also-actually-the-best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! apologies for the delay amigos, I've had probably the biggest adjustment period of my life over the past few months (uni to full time work, yikes!) but I've been snatching chances to write while I can. I'll ramble a little at the end, but here - enjoy!

Neither the fragrant dispensable hand soap, the superior quality of microwavable goods nor the silent as smoke bathroom door could make living in the Blackbeard’s Revenge tour bus a salvageable experience. 

Admittedly, she’d only been there for just over twenty-four hours. 

But it still fucking _sucked_. 

After watching the Jolly Rogers drive away, she’d had little else to do except move her camera equipment and her small suitcase onto the other bus. Of course, the only free bunk happened to be right next to Blackbeard’s, but at least she wasn’t ousting any back-line equipment. If she was going to be here for the next month and a half, she would keep her head down and stay out of trouble, collect her money and go. 

And try not to think too hard about the band that had driven away. 

She spent the entire day in her bunk, alternating between attempting to read and adjusting settings needlessly on her camera, ignoring any offhand remarks sent her way. Blackbeard’s Revenge clearly had their own rhythm, the radio flipped onto some postseason baseball game while they alternated between relaxing and trying to coax a rise out of Emma. There were only so many ‘ _and how goes our forlorn freelancer, darling?_ ’ she could take before she took a leaf out of Tina and Killian’s book and socked one of them in the jaw, but their every jibe strengthened her resolve. The only small mercy she could think of was the lack of Neal, since he had his own car he’d been using for that leg of the tour. 

Eventually, the men dozed off and Emma was left in peace, scrolling idly through her phone. She didn’t text Killian. Her immediate instinct was to wait and see if he texted her first, but remembered too late that they never actually got to a point where they’d exchanged numbers — she only had his because of the note he’d left in her apartment that very first night. Along with his shirt. 

(The shirt she had, in a moment of weakness, decided to throw on.

She’d brought it on the tour under the pretext of giving it back to him, and it had sat at the bottom of her suitcase until she could find the right moment — which now, of course, had obviously passed her by. It felt oddly symbolic of her entire relationship with Killian, to her chagrin.)

August had messaged her a string of salsa dancing women emojis, assuring her she’d pull through the other side. In response, she’d merely sent him a tired looking selfie with the book she’d secretly swiped from his bunk; Pinocchio. His reply was scandalised. 

_I knew there was a reason you said no to my fairytales. ‘Finding your own destiny’ my ass._

**that’s not v gentlemanly**

They’d bantered for a few minutes before she let the phone lie, a dull ache settling in the centre of her chest. She missed him. She missed all of them. 

And before she let the rattling of the bus on the highway lull her into an afternoon nap, she couldn’t stop feeling the phantom scratch of stubble against her temple as a kiss was laid there, a murmur of _sweet dreams, Emma_ , carrying her away.

***

BR had managed to recruit some local band last minute to open for them that night in New York, a city where no shortage of musicians lurked waiting for a chance like that to come along. They’d been okay, the style leaning a little too far into pop-punk for Emma’s liking, but dutifully she took photos and acted much the same as she had on every other night. It was a job, now. Nothing more. Take photos, go to bed. No lingering backstage, no welcome distractions, no banter as the venue was set up — all she cared about was her finger over the shutter release and the thought of getting back to her bunk, Killian’s shirt folded neatly underneath her pillow. 

She’d gone back to the bus immediately after the gig. Even with that vestige of him surrounding her, it had been a restless night’s sleep.

They were performing just one more show in New York, and the next morning Emma couldn’t help but let her thoughts stray to the fact that it would be the last time she worked with Neal. If it weren’t for the fact that it left her alone with Blackbeard’s Revenge she would’ve been more relieved, but as it stood Neal was both a buffer and an inconvenience. They both knew it in their unspoken, mutual agreement; this would be the last time they saw each other. There was no use prolonging their association — the past was firmly in the past, Emma had closure. She didn’t know what Neal had, but it sure as fuck wasn’t anything that concerned her, and there was something decidedly liberating about finally setting fire to that chapter of her life, and letting it go up in smoke. 

While most of her freedom to decide had been taken from her over the past day, it felt good to still be able to make some choices. 

As the hours ticked by into the early afternoon, Emma was flicking through the photos she’d already taken from the last month or so, Blackbeard and Isaac playing cards in the seating area, with Pan listening to music as he lay back in his bunk. Jefferson had disappeared a few hours ago. It was a bitch to get into the city from the parking lot they’d been assigned near Newark, but the bassist seemed to be the only one interested in giving it a try. Emma couldn’t bring herself to give it a go, and it was highly likely the other three had already been before. The precarious peace, however, didn’t last long.

The door at the back of the bus swung open, sunlight beaming through and making Emma blink against the sudden brightness. Assuming it would be Jefferson returning, Emma didn’t spare it a glance — he was easily the most tolerable of the lot of them, but that didn’t make him any less complicit in the reason she was there. 

“Ah,” Blackbeard greeted loudly, and Emma reached for her headphones. The least she could do was drown him out. “Jones. You’re late.”

Her head shot up so fast her neck cracked.

To her utter disbelief, Killian Jones stood silhouetted in the doorframe.

It took mere milliseconds for his eyes to find hers, a vivid blue like the glow of a lighthouse scattered on the waves. Although rationally she knew it had scarcely been a day and a half, it felt like far too long since she’d seen him, and she wrenched her gaze away to try and take in the rest of him — somewhat dishevelled in appearance and, if she wasn’t mistaken, wearing the same rumpled clothes as the day before. With his raven hair sticking up at odd angles on the back of his head, he looked as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. 

“Apologies,” Killian was saying to Blackbeard, “this place isn’t exactly convenient to reach.” Blackbeard waved a dismissive hand, before turning back to his game. 

Before Emma could even fire off a query about why he was there, Killian cut her off. 

“Pack your stuff, Swan,” he said, “we’re going.”

She didn’t move. 

“What’re you doing here?” 

Killian let out an exaggerated huff. “What does it look like? I’m attempting a dashing rescue.” 

“And they say romance is dead,” Isaac hummed in amusement from his spot on the sofa opposite Blackbeard. Emma ignored him. 

She didn’t get why everyone was being so goddamn _calm_. 

As if sensing her hesitation, Blackbeard quirked an eyebrow in her direction. “You’re welcome to stay, Miss Swan, if you so desire.” The look he gave her could be described as leery at best. “But he _has_ come all this way, and even I don’t advocate for that sort of cruelty.”

“Time is rather of the essence, love. Cab’s out front.” 

Killian was watching her earnestly, and she followed the movement of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. He was nervous, by now she could read his posture like a map, and something about it suggested to her that his sense of urgency had little to do with a taxi fare. 

What the hell was going on?

Cautiously, she reached for her bag, gaze darting between the man in the doorway and those sprawled on the sofas. “You’re saying I’m allowed to just walk out of here?”

Blackbeard spread his hands. “Of course.” 

“No invoices in the post?”

“Not even for your pilfering of my vastly expensive soap.”

Emma wasn’t about to wait around for them to change their minds. 

She gathered her stuff as quickly as she could, shoving any loose items around the bunk back into her suitcase before carefully disassembling her camera and safely packing away all of the components. After she descended the ladder and made a quick check of the sheets for anything she hadn’t seen, she threw one last look over her shoulder at the three members of Blackbeard’s Revenge. Malcolm was still lying on his bed, eyes closed with his headphones on, not having even acknowledged the turn of events. Isaac and Charles’ attentions had returned to their game. 

Emma opened her mouth to try and check one final time that she was in the clear. 

“Call,” Charles said mildly, “you really do have the worst luck, Heller.”

“I’m sure my luck will improve once you stop using those two extra aces.” 

They weren’t even the slightest bit interested, and she owed them nothing. So, after throwing them the proverbial middle finger, she merely stepped out of the bus and into the early afternoon sun. Killian’s hand was at the small of her back, guiding her to the entrance of the parking lot where two cabs were already waiting. From their brief distance, she could see August, Robin and Smee in one, Tina in the other, with piles of their equipment stuffed in between. 

“Killian —?” she started. 

“Sorry to press you, love,” he smiled widely at her, before throwing a furtive look back at the bus, “I’m merely eager not to tempt fate.” 

“What the hell is going on?”

“You’re going home,” he said firmly, and the heat from his hand just erred on the side of scorching through her sweater. “That’s all that matters.”

“But _how —?_ ” 

They’d reached the taxis, and all too suddenly the door had swung open to the first and she realised there was an empty seat beside August. Killian brushed a hand over her hip just briefly before he retreated to the other, dropping into the backseat beside Tina. Emma, entirely baffled but not too fond of questioning her good fortune just yet, saw she had no other choice but to buckle in. When she entered the cab it was to a few scattered cheers and August squeezing her hand affectionately. 

She may have no goddamn clue what was happening, but it felt good to be back.

***

The Jolly Rogers were going to get signed.

The moment the door to the cab had shut, August, Smee and Robin were practically tripping over each other in order to relay the good news, an energy thrumming through them that she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before. Apparently, they’d had some incredibly busy twenty-four hours. 

From Jefferson’s mansion in Connecticut, it had taken around eight hours of straight driving to get them back to Storybrooke, Merida testing the speed limit at any moment she could — it was a race against time, they’d decided, to see if they could make something of the exposure from the national tour before the news that Blackbeard’s Revenge had dropped them hit the press. There was no telling just how Gold Records would spin the news, and just how much of an effect it might have on any potential labels interested in signing them. 

As it turned out, somebody had been waiting for them. Eric Triton had never been the bitter sort, he had confessed to them, but if his time with Blackbeard’s Revenge had taught him anything it was that he far favoured the reward that came with nurturing a band who actually cared about music to playing whatever it took to top the charts. After his departure from Blackbeard and company he had turned his attention to producing, eventually partnering up with the Poseidon Music Group after a providential meeting with the CEO’s daughter on a beach, and had made it his business to constantly be scouting for new talent ever since. 

Apparently he had attended their gig at Warehouse 4, the one Emma herself had skipped what felt like a hundred years ago, and he was one of the calls that had Smee’s phone vibrating for days afterwards. You could imagine his exasperation when Blackbeard’s Revenge got to them first. 

It was why, he’d told them, he almost felt glad that they’d been dropped from the tour — it gave him a second shot. The moment one of his contacts had alerted him to the disagreement at Jefferson’s mansion he had started camping as near as he dared to the town line, predicting correctly that they would be racing back to Storybrooke as soon as possible. He accosted them as they stormed into town, and the next thing they knew they had an invitation to play before Poseidon himself next week. Which was only a formality, of course. The deal was as good as done. 

“Have you guys slept at _all?_ ” Emma gaped, and the dark rings around their eyes spoke volumes.

All three of them were giddy, exhausted but exhilarated, and constantly iterating just how glad they were that she was able to share in their good news, but not one of them would say a second word on just how they managed to wrangle her out from Blackbeard’s grasp, insisting that it wasn’t their story to tell. Emma had an inkling of just whose it was, but her curiosity only compounded the longer she sat sandwiched between August and the door of the cab. 

It was a couple hundred bucks for the fare, something she insisted on covering once her cheque from Blackbeard’s Revenge came through, but mercifully they wouldn’t be paying for all the way back to Maine. The taxis dropped them off in New Haven, at a trucker stop they'd agreed to meet Merida and her coach at. The driver was offering the trip pro bono out of something she denied was affection, but it did mean they had to work around her schedule — hence why they were cramming most of their equipment between them in the taxis. 

“We don’t have anywhere to live,” Robin had pointed out, “and we didn’t have time to find a motel. We haven’t stopped moving since we left you!”

It was here that Emma was finally able to approach Killian. While the others milled around outside, perched atop amps and keeping an eye on the flow of traffic for Merida’s coach in the early evening, Emma watched him slip away and head into a diner, not wholly unlike the one they were abandoned at all those weeks before. 

A fluorescent green light blinked in and out of life overhead, and a buzzer went off somewhere behind the counter as she entered — loud enough to draw Killian’s gaze instinctively. He had just finished buying sustenance by the look of it, and once his eyes landed on her a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He held out a paper bag towards her. 

“Onion ring?”

Emma took one of the proffered items. “I thought you hated onion rings.”

“You don’t,” he pointed out. 

For a moment they chewed in silence, her on an onion ring and he on what looked like a carrot stick, before wordlessly moving back outside. Behind them, the neon light from inside the diner shimmered, casting fluorescent shadows against the crunch of gravel underfoot. From twenty or so feet away Emma watched August stand, take ten paces in one direction, then turn and walk back. Everybody was waiting for something, some new start. Anticipation tickled through the air. 

“I heard about your record deal,” she found herself saying, “congratulations.” Although a little stilted in its delivery, the sentiment was earnest. She was still wrapping her head around things but she couldn’t be more proud of the Jolly Rogers.

“Well, nothing’s set in stone yet,” Killian demurred, but she could see the pleased flush working its way up from his collar. “We were just lucky to come across the one person in the industry who might hate Blackbeard more than we do.”

Lord knew Eric had every reason, if what Emma had heard was true. 

“Still, it’s exciting.” 

“It is,” he agreed.

A few pregnant seconds passed, and Emma waited for him to volunteer the information he must know she was eager to find out — just how the hell she was _there_ , and not back in a tiny bunk on Blackbeard’s bus resigned to another evening of ignoring their jibes as best she could. 

“Killian…” she began.

“Carrot stick?” 

Emma waved the bag away, along with his futile attempt to divert attention. “How is it that I just walked out of there?”

Killian shrugged, making every effort to appear nonchalant. He almost succeeded. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” she insisted. His and the others’ reluctance to discuss it only had her anxiety climbing higher and higher, wondering just what stipulations Blackbeard had latched onto her release. “If you’ve traded your soul to Hades for me then I want to know about it so I can —” 

_Thank you? Knock the living daylights out of you?_

“—make it right.”

The corner of Killian’s mouth quirked upwards, the static light of the diner casting his eyes in an electric blue. Alive, aware. Watching her as closely as he always had. “You’d climb down to hell for me, would you, Swan?”

“If I had to,” she replied neutrally. A fierce truth rang with every word.

“Well, you needn’t worry,” Killian continued brazenly. He finished his final carrot stick as she waited for a response, crumpling up the packet in his palm and letting it drop into the trash can beside them. “My soul is safe and sound. We merely offered to cover the cost of your termination fee and Blackbeard was amenable.” 

The declaration caught her off guard; the termination fee was five thousand dollars, that had been non-negotiable. If the Jolly Rogers had that sort of money lying around they would have already offered to foot the bill — she may not have known them long, but she knew that much. They were great people who cared about her wellbeing, and she couldn’t imagine August at the very least permitting the act of driving away from her if they had the means to release her. It was why she spoke her next words with a cautious, amused confidence.

“You guys couldn’t string enough cents for a cardboard box, no less five thousand dollars.”

“That’s the thing about commerce, darling. Money is easy enough to acquire if you have something of value to trade for it.”

He had his guitar, of that she was certain — by the edge of the curb she could see Robin leaning against the familiar case. Killian was avoiding looking at her, reaching a finger behind to scratch at the shell of his ear. Emma’s heart steadily began to beat a rhythm against her ribcage. To her spinning mind, it sounded a lot like Lavender Rose.

“And what was that?”

“Why the Jolly Roger, of course.” 

For a moment Emma blinked, lips parted, not entirely sure what he was referring to. For a petrifying fraction of a second she imagined Blackbeard had insisted the band break up for her to be let go, but belatedly shook the thought when she remembered Eric Triton and the record deal that supposedly awaited them in Storybrooke. 

His gaze dropped and she followed it, before suddenly realising the silver chain she could usually see peeking through the collar of his shirt had vanished.

_This, here, is the Jolly Roger._

His watch. 

Killian was still speaking, but her eyes were fixed on the absence of the accessory. 

“Did I forget to mention the casing was overlain with sterling silver? An ivory clock face, seventeen jewels — and all natural sapphires, not synthetic, mind. Fetches about eight thousand dollars at retail. One of only fifty novelty Peter Pan watches made in 1955, I believe.”

Emma didn’t care about that, not about sapphires or rubies or silver. 

He’d said, he’d _told_ her; that watch was the last thing he owned of his father’s. 

“Cruella Feinberg gave me a fair price back in Storybrooke when I went to her. I could’ve probably gotten more if I hadn’t rushed it, but I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to track the BR bus after New York.” 

He seemed to notice that she hadn’t so much as murmured a response, and squeaked out the remainder of his explanation. “I, ehm… I was in something of a rush.” 

Emma couldn’t wrap her mind around it. This sodding _impossible_ man had found time in between trying to negotiate a deal that would decide the future of his entire career to trade away his most valuable possession, for a girl who had barely been able to tell him that she liked the song he wrote. For her. She was stunned. Fucking _mortified_. Beyond moved.

 _Despite your best efforts, Swan, I was utterly charmed by you_.

 _Thank you_ , she had said, when he’d first shown her the watch. Somehow it didn’t feel like enough now. 

She became more aware of the way he was angled towards her, hanging on her every breath. Fuck, she had to say something. She had to say _something_. 

“You sold your watch for me?”

She thought he might turn away, cower from everything she was asking of him — that after all that, she needed to be sure. She needed to hear it, just one more time. She wanted the beat of Lavender Rose thumping through her, the scent of rusted strings on his shirt. He’d already done so much, but she couldn’t let him get away without _saying_ it, not with her heels slammed into the earth the way they were. 

Tell me, she begged. 

Killian’s vibrant blue gaze met her head on, like he knew — he probably did. 

“Aye,” he said.

Emma wasn’t sure which of them moved first — she thought it was her, she _hoped_ it was her — but after several long seconds her hands wound their way around his shoulders and he was dipping his head to meet her. When their lips connected, she sighed; at once familiar, she knew these lips by now. She knew the way he kissed, as he undoubtedly knew hers, she knew the way his hand would curl at her waist to scratch against the leather of her jacket. She knew the way his mouth would part, the way he would breathe unevenly through his nose against the skin of her cheek to avoid breaking away. 

She knew his heart.

He would let her pull away, if she wanted to. After everything he would let her let him go. 

Not that she would. 

Killian’s right hand rose to brush reverently against her cheek and at once they parted. A flicker of what she knew to be trepidation flashed in his eyes, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Something inside of her crumpled, and it felt like only really _then_ that she understood just how many times she had let him down. Knowingly and unknowingly both.

 _I’m sorry_ , she wanted to say. 

“I can’t believe you did that,” she said instead.

Killian’s shoulders lifted in the barest shrug, his finger tracing a line behind her ear to wind its way around her hair.

“I’m done dwelling on the past.”

To his evident delight Emma tugged him back down to her, this time for longer than before. It was only when they broke apart to the whoops and crows of three other, equally delighted, people, that she realised just how not-alone she and Killian were. The other three Jolly Rogers watched from their spot at the side of the road with matching shit-eating grins. 

Emma raised an eyebrow at Killian, whose arm had moved around to tuck her closer into his side. “I’ll never be able to get ten minutes alone with you, will I?”

“I could do with a break.” At Emma’s look of disbelief, he shrugged. “What did I say about refraining from kissing me after you’ve had onion rings? I can barely stomach you.”

Merida’s bus pulled into the parking lot to the chorus of Killian’s yelp, with Emma leaving him clutching at his side as she walked back over to the others.

***

"Swan?"

The hoarse whisper hovered just over the low rumbling of the bus, barely loud enough to rouse anybody from sleep —but then, Emma hadn't been sleeping. She had a feeling Killian hadn't been either.

When his face popped up over the edge of her bunk, eyes bright in the dim light, it all but confirmed it. He looked abut as wired as she felt, and she met his gaze warmly. He beamed.

"Mind if I —?" The guitarist gestured to the slim line of space between her and the railing at the edge of the bed, and in response Emma shuffled away to allow him a little more room. As quietly as he could, Killian hauled himself up the ladder and slid in beside her. "Christ," he muttered," these beds weren't made for two — _ow_." He knocked his head on the tip of the ladder and scowled, while Emma stifled a laugh.

A glance at her watch informed her it was nearly two in the morning. It also made her stomach twist both pleasantly and anxiously all over again when she thought about _watches_. 

Killian, meanwhile, had righted himself as best he could, slinging his right arm over her hip and tugging her closer. Emma did not resist, and even nudged her leg between his. 

"Hello," Killian murmured, just before their lips met gently.

Emma smoothed her hand up his chest, stopping once it reached the curve of his shoulder. "I'm sorry you sold the watch." She wanted to be a little more articulate than she had been when he'd first told her — it was important to her that he knew that. 

"I'm not," Killian replied with the barest shrug. At Emma's disbelieving look he carried on, rubbing a hand down her back. "Honestly, Emma. It was just a piece of jewellery."

"You said it was the last thing you had left of your father." 

For a moment he was silent, eyes dropping down to her fingers tracing patterns into the front of his shirt. "My father was not always a decent man," he said finally, although it was clear the words had been difficult for him to get out. "I'm sure he'd be happy to see it go to a deserving cause." Before she could reply he hastened to continue, murmuring her name to cut her off. 

As she watched him expectantly, he breathed out an uncertain laugh. "I, erm… forgive me, I have to know. You're not going to get off this bus and change your mind, are you?" 

His hand had frozen on her lower back, almost frightful of her response. With his mouth twisted in a wince and his body tensing, he appeared so much like somebody bracing for an impact that she laughed and knocked her forehead into his chest. 

She could feel his smile into the crown of her head, but he worked on putting some space between them all the same. "I'm _serious_ ," he said, although the mirth in his eyes somewhat belied it, "I'm not sure I could make it through another of your unpredictable tides."

After a moment the laughter subsided, she let herself watch him, truly take him in a way she hadn't done for some time. His eyes appeared a deep navy in the low light, his left eyebrow raised in that barest approximation of hope she had come to see there, lips parted just so like he was waiting for her permission to breathe. Emma touched a hand to his cheek and his eyelids fluttered shut, leaning into the movement. He would let her back away, even now. Even with her in his arms he was offering her that one final chance, and she felt affection surge for him all the more because of it. 

"I'm not changing my mind," she promised. 

Killian's eyes flew open, watching her carefully. 

"I want to see where this thing goes. I'm not saying I'm not terrified, because I am." Like standing at the edge of this unknown precipice, a jump she'd come so close to so many times before with this man — but now she was ready. "I'm petrified."

"I can feel you shaking," he hummed quietly, pressing a kiss to where her neck met her shoulders. "Trust me." 

"I do," she murmured. "I want this future with you, and that's what scares me. Does that," she paused, pulling his face back up to meet her eyes, "does that sound crazy?"

Killian shook his head, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, which quickly morphed into something more confident. 

"It sounds like music to this pirate's ears." 

Emma laughed, a loud, happy thing, and Killian did his best to hush her by drawing her into a kiss. For a few moments they just lay there, chuckling silently and trading affection, the slant of his lips against her own a welcome feeling. It was just as she felt his hand sliding lower across her back, sending a shot of excitement through as his eyes met hers, his intent clear, that she remembered exactly where they were. 

And that they weren't _entirely_ alone.

"Guys, that was adorable, but I swear to God if you have sex on this bus I will never forgive you."

Tina's voice pierced the silence like bursting a balloon — Killian instinctively shot back from Emma, which only led to him smacking his head onto the railing behind him at the edge of the bunk. Emma immediately snorted with laughter, which only increased as he rubbed the back of his head and sent a reproachful look in her direction. 

"We'll turn you into Merida." 

Robin's voice, too, floated down from further up the bus. Emma was grateful for the dark as she felt her face begin to heat up — it was hard enough laying herself bare in front of _Killian_ , let alone his three best friends. Because she was certain, as much as she could be, that August would also be awake. The damn guy didn't miss a thing. 

Tina made a noise of agreement. "Merida specifically said she wouldn't tolerate any funny business."

"Yet somehow," Killian bit back, "she tolerates _you lot_ just fine." After a moment he clearly has no interest in ending, he reluctantly sat up on her bunk and shuffled back towards the ladder. Emma's hand on his leg served as her only protest, and Killian lifted it to place a kiss on the back of it. "I guess I'll have to wait to finally show you a good time, Swan," he winked, "and have you remember it."

Bizarrely, she found herself thinking of one of the post-its he had given her in Storybrooke so long ago. She'd very much like to know how it felt to hear him scream. 

"I guess you will," she replied, making her intent clear. 

She could tell Killian just resisted letting out a low whistle, before dropping down the ladder. 

"Much better," Robin assured them. "No _'good times'_ should be had on the bus. Only terrible, not good times." 

"August, stop reading," Tina urged, "I know you're doing it. Nobody can have fun on the bus!" 

A barely distinguishable rustle came across from August's bunk. "Don't bring me into this."

As the teasing escalated into a sock skirmish (thus determined, claimed Robin, by August's tendency to use socks as missiles when disturbed) Emma forgot about her embarrassment. They were good at that, the Jolly Rogers. Helping her forget. Making her feel comfortable even when the only place she had ever felt safe was a hundred miles away. They had driven for hours through the night so that they could get to her, had defended her even when her opponent had been one of their closest friends, had cared for her. Without strings. Unashamedly. Wholly. 

Mary Margaret would always be her sister, or as close to a sister as Emma would ever get. But these guys? 

They were her family. The one she had chosen for herself.

And the one she would continue to choose, every fucking chance she got. 

***

"You ready?" She had asked, a week later, as Killian wiped his palm on the edge of his jeans. To try and get rid of the sweat, she knew, it was practically rolling off of him in waves. 

"As we'll ever be."

Emma squinted through the viewfinder on her camera, using Tina fiddling with the height of the microphone as her focus point. Beside her, Killian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, anxiety driving from him. At the other end of the room, Poseidon himself, his executive assistant and Eric Triton were just settling themselves into three large chairs. With their high backs and elaborate deorations around the arms, _thrones_ was the first word that popped into Emma's head when she'd seen them. Imposing, powerful. Intimidating as hell. 

Part of the reason Killian was reminding himself to breathe in and out. 

"You heard what Eric said," she assured him, "this is just a formality. It's practically a done deal." 

Killian looked at her sharply. "Not if he doesn't like us." 

"He will." 

The activity in the room was slowly beginning to wind down, each party slowly running out of ways to delay the inevitable. Emma gave him a gentle shove. 

"Now get lost so I can take some decent photos, yeah?"

This time when Killian smiled down at her, she could tell he meant it. It was one of those goofy, wide smiles she had found he couldn't keep back when she was around. It had a somewhat irritating habit of making her stomach drop pleasantly. He smoothed a hand down her back. 

"Such glowing words of encouragement," he mused, leaning to brush his lips against hers.

"Why bother?" she smirked once he pulled away. "It's not like my lack of encouragement ever held you back."

In response he patted his hand against her, and gave her one last amused glance over his shoulder before heading over to the others. His strat, perched primly against the wall, was soon lifted and slung over his shoulder, as he exchanged a few quiet words with Tina and August. Robin was settling himself down onto the stool behind his kit, and Tina then hummed a few quiet tests into the microphone. 

Emma, meanwhile, took a few preparatory shots. After deciding the look Killian had sent her was altogether too deliberate, she stretched her arm behind her back — true enough, her fingers grazed something stuck there. Tugging it free, she realised it was a post-it. Some things never changed.

_Wish me luck._

_—K x._

When their eyes met again, she shook her head with a smile. He didn't need luck. 

Soon enough, the low murmur of noise in the room slowly sunk into silence, Eric no longer murmuring into Poseidon's ear and the huge man instead surveying the group of musicians in front of him. Despite herself, Emma felt her pulse begin to thump a little bit quicker, glancing between the two sides of the room. 

The twang of August's bass lurched from one of the amps, before fizzling out into nothing as he rushed to still the string.

Poseidon shifted in his seat. Emma's finger hovered over the shutter button. Killian cleared his throat. 

Robin lifted his drumsticks to eye-level, pausing before clacking them together —

One, two —

_Three, four —_

The shutter clicked. The room exploded with sound.

And that was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there it is!
> 
> it feels a little strange to be checking "complete" on this one, there are a few loose ends I'd like to tie up and the stirrings for a sequel have always been there, but I think CS and my relationship to CS has changed a lot over the course of this fic, so I think I'd quite like to focus on finishing the things I already have going and get started on some newer projects for our beloved OTP for now.
> 
> that said, watch this space, I will definitely be following up with an **epilogue** (which may/may not contain Killian's aforementioned illegal pancakes..... which took on a whole new meaning after 6B came out if ya get what I'm saying.....) and I'll always love my jolly rogers, so I'm certainly not closing the door on a proper continuation. be sure that if I ever go ahead, you'll all be the first to know! 
> 
> and finally - thank you! I received so much support while I was writing this, and you've all been hugely patient with my gaps between updates. I couldn't have finished this fic without all of you and your words of encouragement mean the absolute world to me. thank you all so so much, I hope you like how it ended, and I hope that I'll see some of you again on my projects to come! <3
> 
> I'll be reviving my tumblr over the next few days, so feel free to come and say hello @captainjayharkness
> 
> peace out, love jay x


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